


Clip Your Dirty Wings

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Discrimination, Frequent references to rape, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Weird Biology, chemical castration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Primitive ducks are renowned for their violence and rapists tendencies. Unfortunately, modern society believes this also applies to civilized ducks like Fenton. Male ducks are treated like second-class citizens and forced to undergo chemical castration and Fenton is sick of it. He knows he's not like that, even though Gyro thinks otherwise.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack, Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 186
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was just thinking about duck biology again. Normal ducks in our world are absolute assholes. They’re all a bunch of violent rapists that often drown the female and kill her ducklings just to get a chance to mate. So with that jumping off point I started writing this.

Fenton rubs the palms of his hands against his upper thighs again, trying desperately to wipe off the slick sweat coating them. He's not sure if he’s ever sweated this much in his entire life. Heck, he wasn’t even aware his palms were capable of sweating this much. The sweat just seems to spring from an endless supply of the stuff in his body, as if somewhere inside himself is an endless spring of saltwater. But he’s also not sure if he’s ever been this nervous in his life. The overhead lights of the hallway seem too bright, too hot. The hallway seems too quiet. He can hear somebody walking somewhere around the other side of the building, a woman, probably, by the clacking of the heels against the off-cream linoleum that is characteristic of every college campus in existence.

When he had first arrived at the Capon Building for Science and Technology, there had been four others waiting outside the room already. Three women and a man. They had all been dressed nicer than Fenton and their hair had been better styled than Fenton’s and they had all given him that condescending smile that everyone who thinks they’re better than everyone else gives him. The one that says ‘ _Yes, I am very accepting of people different from myself and I want you to think I’m not judging you even though I am_.’ Except one of the women had made sure to set her purse on the empty spot beside her and Fenton had sat on the one chair on the opposite side of the door from the others. But he didn’t mind, really, it helped with the sweating.

He hasn’t seen the man inside the office yet. Whenever one of the others comes out of the room they leave the door open and the disembodied voice calls out the name of whoever he wants to see next and Fenton hears him asking them to shut the door on the way in. His voice is impatient and harsh and oh so brilliant. And Fenton just can’t believe his luck. His application, out of all the applications submitted by the students of Yarvard campus, was chosen for an interview with what may possibly be the most genius scientist in the world.

The door opens and the last of the women walks out. She struts past Fenton, holding her portfolio against her chest, smiling confidently. Her smile changes when she sees Fenton still waiting and he can’t help but notice how she moves over to the opposite side of the hallway as she passes him, one hand pulling down at the pencil skirt she’s wearing.

“Crackshell-Cabrera!”

He jumps up, promptly dropping his briefcase on the floor with a clatter. There’s not much inside of it but he groans internally because whatever is inside it is probably all strewn over and out of order now. Not to mention his maybe-future-boss had to have heard it hitting the floor and probably has already dismissed him because who wants a clumsy worker in their lab? Nevertheless, he picks up the briefcase, quickly straightens his tie, and marches into the office.

It’s a small office. An office for a professor who barely ever teaches and holds one-on-one meetings even less often. It looks somehow both cluttered and sparse at the same time. There are bookshelves but the bookshelves are empty of actual books, instead half-filled with stacks of papers. There are no photographs or knickknacks peppered around the room but there are stray screwdrivers, a roll of wire, a pile of what appears to be RAM chips – that sort of clutter.

And smack dab in the middle of the room, sitting behind a scarred but expensive-looking old desk, is the man himself. The _legend_ himself.

He hasn’t even looked up at Fenton yet. He’s looking at Fenton’s resume instead as if this is the first time he has even glanced at the thing, and maybe it is. Maybe one of his other students picked out the candidates for him, his own schedule too important and too busy to deal with such trivialities. Or maybe he’s just trying to remind himself why Fenton was worth calling in at all after the fiasco with the briefcase.

“Mr. Crackshell-Cabrera,” the one and only Gyro Gearloose begins, setting down the paper. He looks up to see Fenton standing there and Fenton can’t help but notice the sudden stiffness in the man’s posture. The tightness in his shoulders. He feels something small and pathetic wither in his own stomach. “Oh, I expected- Well, I don’t know what I expected, I suppose. Don’t see many of your kind this far up the education ladder. Please sit down.”

He gestures at the chair across from the desk. Fenton hurries to it, banging his briefcase against his leg in the process. He clutches it to his chest as he plops down in the chair. It’s still warm from the young woman before.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gearloose.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dr. Gearloose agrees passively. He picks up the paper again and skims through it, looking for something in particular. “So, your resume says you have a 4.0 average. I see you took several honors classes in robotics, specifically. Is that your area of interest?”

“Oh, well, uh,” Fenton flushes, squirming in his seat. He feels underdressed with Dr. Gearloose’s eyes on him and wishes he had worn a pair of nice slacks today. “I just, Dr. Bufflehead and I had a good rapport. She was-”

“I get it,” Dr. Gearloose cuts him off with a roll of his eyes. “I didn’t realize Dr. Bufflehead taught so many honors classes. I can see where somebody like you would be of special interest to her.”

‘ _Because you’re a duck_ ,’ are the unspoken words that lie in the air between them. Now Fenton is feeling even more nervous because what if Dr. Gearloose just thinks he was accepted into those programs because she was showing sympathy for him? He worked hard for the limited spaces in those classes and was accepted on his own merit. The fact that his favorite professor was teaching the classes influenced him to apply to them, not her to accept him. Dr. Bufflehead never had to deal with the exact same sort of stigma as Fenton has since he was a small child, but she’s still a rare example of any duck in a position of authority in higher education.

She had told him once that he reminded her of her own son who is, according to her, “A good boy. Very bright. I pushed for him to have higher aspirations but he’s thirty years older than you and things were harder back then.”

“It says you were awarded the Most Innovative award at the robotics competition two years in a row,” Dr. Gearloose continues, perusing the document. He picks up a mug at his elbow and drinks from it. When he sets it down, Fenton sees the words _#237 Professor_ on it. A joke? Does Dr. Gearloose have a sense of humor? “But not last year, may I ask why? Did you not enter?”

“It’s a bit personal,” Fenton mumbles, staring at the mug still so he doesn’t have to look at him.

“If you’re going to be working closely with me then I’m afraid we will get very personal with one another,” Dr. Gearloose says irritably. “Avoiding questions will not score well in this interview.”

“I…had some health problems last year,” Fenton starts slowly. Then he shakes his head. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t want Dr. Gearloose to think he’s sickly and unreliable, so he just gives him the gritty truth. “I was attacked one evening in the parking garage on campus by some guys. They stole my laptop and broke my right arm. Without it I had difficulty trying to finish my project. It is...difficult to maneuver a screwdriver with your arm in a sling.”

“Oh, I remember getting the alert about that in my e-mails,” Dr. Gearloose considers. He’s frowning at Fenton as if it were his fault the entire situation had happened. He had been on campus late because he had a late class, but he can tell by the way Dr. Gearloose is looking at him that is not what he is assuming. It’s not what the men had assumed either. They all assume the worse, they always do.

“ _Trying to find some defenseless woman on campus to take advantage of? Nobody wants your type on this campus. Let’s see how you feel being the victim_.”

Some freshmen had found him tied to the tree where they had left him. Fenton is just thankful that she was kind enough to call the cops rather than walk away. Though she refused to untie him herself.

The rest of the interview is just downhill from there. Dr. Gearloose shows little interest in any of the thesis papers that Fenton had included in his portfolio, criticizes some of his work as sloppy, and doesn’t ask about his availability. He just sends Fenton off with a disinterred and fake-sounding “I’ll be in touch.”

Fenton drives straight to his mother’s house after the catastrophe of an interview and cries in her arms while she strokes his hair as if he were a little boy.

“You’re too had on yourself, pollito,” she assures him, tsking over his breakdown. “Why should you care if some stuck-up chicken doesn’t see your genius for what it is? Good riddance! Why don’t you apply for an internship with that nice female professor you like instead?”

Because Dr. Bufflehead doesn’t do internships. She’s a full-time professor, part-time scientist. Dr. Gearloose is a full-time scientist and a barely accessible professor. He had been afforded tenure before the age of forty because he is a scientific genius, not because he is an exceptional teacher. Interning with him could have sky-rocketed Fenton’s own career. He could have been the most famous duck in all of science. He could have learned so much.

And now he’s just another unemployed drake duck.

“Go take a shower and wash off the scent of that horrible cologne,” his mother pushes, not allowing him to wallow any longer in his misery. She doesn’t say it, but Fenton knows she wants him to wash off the stench of rejection just as much as the stench of whatever Mountain Storm is supposed to smell like. “I’m making your favorite krab meat enchiladas for dinner. They’re all set to pop in the oven. Then we can open that box of wine in the fridge and finish binge-watching that show about the serial killer.”

His mother is just a traffic cop, but she’s had aspirations for years of becoming a real detective. Watching a bunch of shows about serial killers on Netflix doesn’t seem to be helping her towards that goal but he tries to be a supportive son. And she’s right, his cologne is horrible.

Maybe he’ll sleep over tonight, Fenton thinks to himself when he’s lathering himself up under the showerhead. He lifts his head back so that the spray can hit him directly in the face, soothing his tender skin and washing away the salt from when he had sat alone in his car and cried for five minutes before leaving campus. Strictly speaking, single male ducks his age are supposed to not sleep anywhere besides their own domicile, unless they are hospitalized or at a hotel or something. Following the normal regulations, he had moved out on his own at the age of eighteen to an apartment building that only leases to male ducks – a drake pad in slang terms. He’s lived in the same studio ever since, an apartment so small he can almost reach the fridge from his bed.

He spends so little time at home it doesn’t really bother him. The only annoyance is that there is no room to fit a real desk so whenever he’s trying to do an assignment he has to sit on his bed, surrounded by books with a computer on his lap. This style of working goes against the way Fenton prefers to work, it makes concentrating difficult and he always misplaces his books.

“Can I sleep here tonight on the couch?” Fenton asks his mother when he returns to the kitchen. He’s put on a pair of his old pajamas that he had found in his old bedroom – now his mother’s workout room. “I’ll get up early before the neighbors see my car’s still here.”

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice uncertain. She’s already holding a glass of wine in one hand, leaning one hip against the counter as she waits for the enchiladas to finish. “What if something happens? Crime has been increasing in the area lately and if something were to happen when you were around…”

“Right,” Fenton agrees. He forces a smile on his face. “You’re right, of course, M’ma. But I should probably stick to just one glass of wine with dinner if I have to drive later. Dinner smells delicious, is it nearly done?”

* * *

Fenton is awoken by the sound of his phone ringing. After yesterday’s horrible interview, he had stayed up late with his mother just because he couldn’t face the idea of spending an evening alone in his pathetically small flat, and then he had immediately passed out in bed once he arrived home shortly after midnight. Not even under the blankets, just lying on top of them, back in his cologne-drenched clothes he had worn to the interview.

Normally, he would be awake by nine. Hell, normally he would be awake by six. But everybody deserves a few days to recover after such a horrible day and he was still fast asleep, curled up around his body pillow, when his phone rang.

Unknown number. What if it’s Dr. Gearloose, calling to tell him his application was rejected?

What if it’s Dr. Gearloose, calling to tell him his application was accepted?

He coughs to clear his throat, tasting cheap box wine bitter and stagnant on his tongue. He shouldn’t have had the second glass. Or the third.

“Hello, Fenton here.”

“Good morning, Mr. Crackshell-Cabrera, this is Sharon calling from the Drake Regulations Medical Office.” Fenton feels like crying and he isn’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment. “I’m calling to make your annual implant appointment with you.”

Is it that time of the year already? Fenton rubs at his eyes and squints at the date in the corner of his phone. It’s blurry and he’s trying to see through just one eye, and he can’t make it out. But when he thinks about it, he remembers it is nearly August. His mother had taken him to get his first implant before he started school in sixth grade which would have been in early September so yeah, that does sound correct.

“I have a ten-thirty appointment available on the second,” the woman across the phone replies when he asks for the earliest available date. “As well as an eleven and a twelve-thirty.”

“Ten-thirty is fine,” he says, sighing. He hates these appointments. They’re not the worst, he knows that well after the broken-arm incident, but they always leave his arm aching for the next few days. Not even just near the implant but down the entire arm all the way to his wrist. Besides that, he’s also starting to build up scar tissue there, causing a small lump under his feathers. “No, no need for a reminder card, thank you.”

He drops the phone on the bed beside him and tries to go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later he gets up and starts to get dressed.

Today is going to be a job-hunting day.

Specifically, today is going to be a bills-covering job-hunting day. He’ll check for new online listings that fit his degree later but this morning he’s going to be making the rounds at all the restaurants and retail shops once more. Because he is broke. As long as he was going to school he had been receiving extra funds from his loans to help cover the cost of his apartment; since male ducks aren’t allowed in the dorm there is a special clause to help them cover the cost of other living arrangements. But he’s been out of school since May and now they’re starting to ask for the money back. He had been counting on the internship to have his doctorate program application approved and giving him the chance to stay on the government funds awhile longer.

Funny how nobody else needs to prove they can find somebody willing to take them on as an apprentice before accepting them into the degree program.

He doesn’t really expect to hear back from any of the jobs he applies for today. He never does. Businesses don’t want to hire men like him, not for positions where he will be out where he can be seen working with people. He had worked one summer in the back of a fish market gutting fish for minimum wage and a free lunch. He hated the job and has been resisting re-applying for the position but he’s starting to get desperate.

A couple of the fast-food places apologize and say they’re not hiring currently when he asks for an application. Fenton says nothing about the “Now Hiring” signs outside both buildings. He catches a third throwing his application directly into the trash immediately once he’s out the door. Like the side of the damn restaurant wasn’t made of extremely see-through glass.

Discrimination against ducks is, in theory, illegal. In practice, it is encouraged.

The second time his phone rings that day, Fenton is loitering at the park. He can’t stomach the idea of filling out any more applications for the day, knowing they’ll just end up in the trash. He also can’t stomach the idea of sitting alone in his apartment right now but can’t go to his mother’s house either. She won’t be home for another four hours and if anybody saw him breaking in without her there, he could be shot.

So instead, he sits forlornly at the end of a small dock that overlooks the pond, watching the waterfowl swim around. This time of the year the wild ducks all look the same, the males having shed their green and gray feathers and turned a muddy brown like the females. He likes it better when he can tell which is which because it gives him an excuse to throw small pebbles at the males and curse at them. He’s throwing them bits of bread instead, from a sandwich that he hasn’t had the appetite to finish when the phone buzzes in his pocket.

No “Unknown” this time. The name “Drake Mallard” flashes on the screen in white block text. He doesn’t have it in him to reject the call outright, but he lets it ring until it goes to voicemail. When it rings again five minutes later, he brings the phone to his ear with as much energy as if he were lifting a giant cement block.

“Hi Drake, what’s up?”

Drake is an old friend of his. They went to school together, banding together throughout middle and high school as two of the only ducks enrolled. After graduation, Fenton had stayed in Stoopburg to attend Yarvard, and Drake had moved to St. Canard to attend school at the only acting academy in the state that accepted male ducks. Even though it’s not that far, Fenton has only visited St. Canard a handful of times since Drake moved there. It’s a duck-majority city and, unfortunately, one of the most crime-ridden places in the entire country.

Some people point to it as an example of how ducks do carry out more crime than non-ducks. Rarely do that point out it is basically a slum that the state used to use as a dumping ground for ex-criminals. It’s been only a couple of generations since that practice stopped and, well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. It makes Fenton sad because it could be a duck utopia, with the right leadership. And instead of trying to do anything to help with that vision he just avoids the place altogether.

“Just calling to see how that interview with that crackpot scientist went,” Drake says cheerfully. “Oh, and to invite you to the opening of the new show next weekend, if you’re up for it. Launchpad said he’d come pick you up if you were afraid to try to drive the freeway.”

“Send me the flyer and I’ll see if I can make it,” Fenton lies, because he won’t make it. And he doesn’t want to be stuck in a car with Drake’s larger-than-life boyfriend for two hours. The guy is built like the side of a building. “And the interview went like shit. There’s no way I got the internship. I don’t think he’s even going to bother to give me a call back to let me know I didn’t get it; it was that bad.”

“I keep telling you, move out here with us. We have the spare bedroom. You’re not going to find any job opportunities in Stoopburg. Nobody is going to treat you as a real person there, you belong with others like yourself.”

“My mom lives here,” Fenton reminds him.

“Bring her, too. Plenty of work for a cop here.”

Fenton shudders inside at the idea of it. Stoopburg is safe. St. Canard is not. He’d rather have his mother working safely as a traffic cop here than risking life and limb in that city as a detective.

“Why don’t you come over here for a visit?” Fenton suggests instead. “We can go to Funzo’s and play some minigolf.”

“And have every Karen in a one-mile diameter glaring at us like we’re just waiting to drag little Johnny into the bathroom and touch his pee pee? Yeah, no thanks. Wait, Launchpad is asking me…Crap, he lost his keys again. I gotta go.”

“Yeah, I do too,” Fenton lies. “I’ve got another call coming in.”

Except he’s not lying because he does actually have another call coming through. The moment the words pass his lip he hears the familiar beeping indicating somebody is trying to reach him. The caller ID identifies it as a call from Yarvard University.

“Please don’t be the alumni association already demanding donations,” he pleads, crossing his fingers desperately before pressing Accept.

“Crackshell-Cabrera, it’s Dr. Gearloose. So, I just got off the phone with my first choice for the intern position and apparently, she’s being deported for being an international spy or some junk. Can you start on the second?”

“Wha?”

“The second, of August. At eight sharp. I know the semester doesn’t start until end of month, but I need to get you caught up on my projects ASAP. Can you do it or do I need to move onto my third choice?”

Fenton tries to speak but nothing is coming out. His mouth is just moving on its own. He glances down at the water in front of him and sees a few of the smaller birds, they must be the females, looking up at him. Somehow, he feels like they’re rooting for him.

“Yeah, of course!” Fenton finally manages to get. “Eight sharp! Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Just your brain.”

There is no goodbye. No congratulations. Just a beep indicating the call has ended. Fenton stares at it, dumbstruck before a smile stretches across his face. Then he suddenly curses to himself.

“Oh crap! I have that doctor’s appointment on the second!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I always have to explain titles for my fics.
> 
> And because titles of my fics are almost always song lyrics.
> 
> Isn't me, have a seed  
> Let me clip, your dirty wings  
> Let me take a ride, cut yourself  
> Want some help, please myself
> 
> -Polly by Nirvana

The door leading inside the lab is a heavy, metal atrocity that probably weighs more than Fenton. When he tries to push it open with his hands it doesn’t give, not even an inch. He presses his shoulder against it, but it isn’t enough and the messenger bag hanging over his shoulder keeps falling and getting in his way. Finally, he tosses the messenger bag over his shoulder so that it lies across his back and presses hard with his shoulder, feet firmly planted on the ground, pushing with all his strength, until enough of a slit is exposed that he is able to just barely squeeze through. The metallic door crashes shut behind him, leaving him panting with exhaustion and fear over nearly being crushed on his first day on the job.

“You’re late!” Gyro Gearloose spits out, standing directly before him with his hands on his slim hips, looking infinitely impatient. He seems too professional for this hour in the morning, hair neatly combed, tie expertly tied, hat tipped back jauntily on his head as if he were one of those old-timey singers that roam around singing at Disneyland.

“What?” Fenton sputters, adjusting his bag so it hangs back against his side. He glances at the smartwatch on his wrist. “I’m fifteen minutes early! It’s only seven-forty-five!”

“I do not stand for the bare minimum of punctuality,” Dr. Gearloose replies, tapping his foot as he points at the more expensive, fancier smartwatch on his own wrist. “When I say eight, I expect you here by seven-thirty.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Fenton objects.

“Rule number one of being an intern, predict what your mentor will want and do it before he has to ask.”

“Geez, I’m sorry I can’t read minds,” Fenton mutters, waiting until Dr. Gearloose has walked far enough away that he can’t hear him complaining within the first minute of his internship. Then he speaks up loud enough to be heard. “I brought my own lab coat, should I put it on, or do you have special ones for the lab?”

“You don’t need a lab coat, you’re not touching anything in my lab,” Dr. Gearloose replies, still walking away from Fenton, his back turned towards him. Fenton jogs after him, confused. How is he supposed to fulfill his duties if he can’t touch anything?

There is a small room to one side of the lab outfitted with a table, mini-fridge, coffee machine, and a microwave. Dr. Gearloose points at the coffee machine. It is currently set to off and there is no coffee in the carafe. It’s a fancy looking one, all steel and black glass.

“Your first duty is to prepare the coffee before I arrive at eight each morning,” he informs Fenton, still pointing at the machine. “And to make sure sugar and one percent milk is always available. Not two percent, not skim milk, one percent. Why aren’t you writing this down?”

“Oh, uh, of course, sir,” Fenton grabs at his pockets but they’re empty, of course. He has never carried notepads and pens in his pocket in his life so he doesn’t even know why he checked. Dr. Gearloose stares at him, arms crossed, as he fumbles for a notepad and pen from his bag.

“You realize most phones come equipped with a note-taking application?” Fenton’s new mentor asks as he stands willing and ready with the notepad now in his hands.

Fenton winces internally. That was a stupid move on his part, admittedly. He just prefers writing things on paper when he can.

“Okay, uh, one percent milk,” he stutters, jotting it down in the notepad. “Got it.”

“Good,” Dr. Gearloose goes on. He uncrosses his arms. “Don’t worry about the coffee itself. I’m picky about my beans and have a standing order with a specialty supplier in Hawaii. I like my coffee brewed with thirteen and a half tablespoons of ground. The grinder is in the lowest drawer to the left with the coffee beans.”

“Thirteen and a half tablespoons,” Fenton mutters to himself as he scribbles the note. He leaves his hand posed to take further notes, looking up at Dr. Gearloose for the next instruction.

Dr. Gearloose just stares at him, not saying anything. A long moment passes, the air becoming more tense and awkward on Fenton’s part with each second. Why is he just looking at him like that?

“Well?” Dr. Gearloose demands finally. “Where is my coffee?”

“Oh!” Fenton nearly stumbles over his feet on the way to the cupboard. “Of course, Dr. Gearloose, right away, Dr. Gearloose, I’ll have it ready in a jiffy, Dr. Gearloose.”

“I will be back in five minutes,” Dr. Gearloose nods his approval. “When you’re finished, sit at the table and wait for me. You may have one cup of coffee, if you wish, per day.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Gearloose,” Fenton salutes him, then quickly hides his hand behind his back because why the hell did he salute the man. He’s a scientist, not a four-star general.

“Good,” Dr. Gearloose nods again, ignoring Fenton’s blunder. “And intern? You don’t have to call me that. My friends call me Gyro, and I suppose I’ll let you do so as well. Sir is also fine.”

Fenton is not a coffee drinker. He never has been, it messes with his head and leaves his heart feeling like it's trying to escape from his chest. He’s more of a hot water with a slice of lemon person, or maybe a non-caffeinated herbal tea person on occasion. But he used to always wake up early back in high school and start up a pot for his M'ma before she woke up so he knows how to use the machine. But his mother was also never picky enough to buy whole roasted beans and the entire experience of grinding coffee is a new experience to him. He isn’t sure how many beans to put in and reasons he needs just a little more than fourteen tablespoons but he terribly underestimates how much that really is and keeps adding just a few beans at a time until he has the amount required to scoop out thirteen and a half tablespoons of ground coffee into the filter. But then there is some leftover in the grinder and Fenton isn’t sure if he should leave them in there or throw them out? Would it be dry and disgusting by tomorrow morning if he reuses them? Or would it be a waste of what is obviously an expensive product to throw them in the trash? He decides to leave them.

He’s barely had a chance to sit down and watch the coffee slowly start to drip into the pot when Dr. Gear- er, Gyro, has returned. He’s carrying a stack of papers that reaches from his waist to his eyes and he plops these down in front of Fenton with a grunt. They’re filed away into a dozen or more different yellow portfolio folders and he divides these up, laying them in a straight line across the desk in front of Fenton.

“I want you to read all of these before I let you out of this room,” Gyro informs him, tapping the folder directly in front of Fenton for punctuation.

“All, all of these?” Fenton asks, going pale. There are hundreds, no, thousands of pages here. There is no way he can finish these all today. “I can’t read through all this today, sir.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Gyro rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. Fenton can already sense this must be a habit of his, maybe even a physical tic. Or maybe it’s a sign of unease, a need to shield himself from something on the outside. An individual society had deemed dangerous, perhaps. “This is why I demanded you come in starting today. I want this all finished and memorized by the time classes officially begin on the twenty-third. I’ll be testing you that day to make sure you were able to absorb the most important information.”

“Of, of course,” Fenton agrees, internally sighing in relief but not totally able to relax because how can he possibly pass a test on so much information. “I won’t let you down.”

“Good,” Gyro grunts. He unfolds his arms and leans over to touch the folder on Fenton’s far left. “Start with this one and move left to right. This first set is on the rules and safety standards of the lab.”

Fenton dies a little inside at that. He knows lab safety. He can’t imagine anything more boring at this exact moment in time than spending his day reading about safety regulations.

“The rest,” Gyro continues, sweeping his arm dramatically down the line. “Is information on a number of my ongoing projects. Not all of them, mind you, but the ones I expect to be putting you to work on. Therefore, I need you to become familiar with the concepts, outlines, and theories.”

Now that sounds much more up Fenton’s alley. While he would prefer to just jump into the work itself, reading about them should be interesting in its own right. Besides, Gyro is correct, he would be of more help if he understood their inner workings completely.

“Take notes,” Gyro adds, arms back across his chest once more. “I will be quizzing you today on my own rules, only. Not the legal regulations. This set is only two-hundred and twelve pages long, you should be able to finish it before day’s end without a problem. Once you pass the test, I will allow you to leave for the day so consider this an easy first day. Don’t expect them all to be so.”

“Yes, sir,” Fenton agrees, standing up. He thinks he should be standing for some reason, but he doesn’t know why and Gyro doesn’t offer a hand to shake so he just sort of bows awkwardly. “Thank you, sir.”

Gyro nods. Fenton sits back down and watches his mentor walk over to the coffee pot that has just finished percolating and pours himself a cup of coffee in a mug. It appears to be the same one he was drinking from in the school office. Does he only own one mug, or does he own multiples of the same mug? Fenton opens the folder and looks at the first page lying before him on the pile, turning it over quickly to confirm that it is indeed only single-side print, then he glances back up at Gyro. He’s stirring his milk and sugar together. Then he brings it to his lips and sips at the coffee, appears to swish the coffee around his mouth, then takes another sip.

“Acceptable,” he declares after swallowing. He heads for the door.

“Oh, by the way, intern,” he calls back, not even turning to look at Fenton. “If you don’t pass that test today, I’ll be replacing you.”

* * *

Fenton’s re-scheduled doctor’s appointment is at 5:30. Initially, he had been grateful that the office had been willing to move it to later in the day, enabling him to clock in a full first day at the lab, but he hadn’t expected to be cutting it this close. Gyro had told him nothing about the test, not even if he was allowed to re-take it if he failed it on the first try, so he had read and reread the entire booklet three times through. It had a bunch of rules on what can and cannot be touched, how often and how loudly he was allowed to talk, and where foods were permitted in the break room.

He would have liked to have read through the material a fourth time but didn’t have anywhere near the time to do so. So, he walked up to Gyro’s desk and informed him he was finally ready for the quiz.

And the test had ended up being a single sheet of paper with one question printed in size eleven Times New Roman on the top of the page.

_What is the only machine in Gyro Gearloose’s lab that an intern is allowed to touch without asking his permission first?_

The answer, of course, had been the coffee machine.

All that reading and it had been one, single, question!

“Just wanted to make sure you read it thoroughly, intern,” Gyro had explained, his feet up on his own desk as he finished off the last of the coffee. “But do you really think I have the time to sit here and think up and grade an entire quiz?”

Of course not.

Fenton had been dismissed exactly one hour before his appointment, which would have been a decent amount of time for the thirty-minute drive across town, if he had been able to open the lab door. It had been difficult enough to push the thing open this morning, but now he was on the other side of the thing and had to try to pull it open which was a substantially more difficult task. He spends nearly twenty minutes with his hands around the knob, feet planted in the ground, pulling and pulling, until Gyro saunters up with his briefcase in one hand, coat over his arm, and gives the simple command “door, open” and the thing swings open as if it were as light as one of those two hundred and twelve pieces of paper that Fenton has wasted the majority of his day reading.

“I already synced your voice with the lab computers, so feel free to make use of the voice system for this sort of thing, intern.”

Fenton feels like punching the stupid genius scientist in his stupid genius face.

But he barely has time as it is to run to his car and zip across town to the only office in the entire city that administers drake implants. They close at six so being late isn’t an option.

He makes it five minutes before his appointment and stands outside the door for a minute, catching his breath after the run from the parking garage. He holds himself up with his hands on his thighs, leaning over to gasp for air. When’s the last time he has run anywhere?

They take him to a small room at the end of the doctor’s office and leave him alone in a gown, sitting on noisy, crinkly paper covering a cracking examination table. There’s a poster of a tropical beach on the ceiling that for some reason makes Fenton feel extremely uncomfortable. It’s too cold in here and his feathers begin to stand up, giving him a flustered, ruffled appearance.

The nurse comes in first, a bright-yellow canary by the name of Binkie, who treats him very kindly, which is nice for a change. Usually, the nurses are exceptionally rude to him. He doesn’t recall seeing her before.

“Oh, you have such shiny feathers,” she compliments as she ruffles through them to check his temperature with an electric ear thermometer. They’re still rumpled and the coldness of the thermometer in his ear doesn’t help him feel any more at ease. “And so soft too. What shampoo do you use?”

She goes through the normal routine. Eyesight, hearing, blood pressure. His blood pressure is on the low side. She checks his weight and height, noting that he is a little underweight but nothing a few good meals wouldn’t help with.

“My youngest son gets that way sometimes,” she says, nodding. “I just whip up a bunch of meatloaf and pasta and it gets him right back on track like that. Alright, dear, time to take a blood sample.”

Fenton sighs. He hates having his blood drawn. It always leaves him feeling weak, his hands shaky, and usually a bit light in the head. But it’s part of the annual checkup – making sure his hormone levels are correct. Checking that his natural hormones are low, and his unnatural ones are high. Binkie promises him a lollipop if he doesn’t flinch and somehow that actually works as an incentive but he can’t help but wonder as she unwraps it and hands it to him if she thinks he is younger than he is. He sucks on it when she gives him the anesthesia injection over the scar on his left arm.

“Alright,” she wraps up her time with him with a friendly pat on his right shoulder. “The doctor will be right in. Just relax, dear, it’ll be over before you know it.”

As if he hasn’t been through this same procedure a dozen times before.

The doctor completely lacks the warmth of the nurse. He sounds professional at first when he introduces himself as Dr. Eagle, apparently not recognizing Fenton or at least not acknowledging that he has been seeing him yearly since he was a pre-teen. But then Dr. Eagle glances up at the clock on the wall and frowns. He’s rough when he rolls up Fenton’s sleeve, asking why he hadn’t already done so before he came into the room.

“I don’t see why they scheduled such a late appointment today. They know I don’t like seeing patients this late unless it’s an emergency.”

Fenton doesn’t feel it when he cuts open his arm with a couple of precise movements with the scalpel. The doctor uses a pair of tweezers with extremely sharp-looking ends to extract the tiny matchstick-sized tube from his arm. There are serial numbers on the implant and Fenton watches the doctor’s lips move as he reads them very quietly to himself. Then he looks at Fenton’s chart, the numbers repeating on his lips, and his frown deepens. He glances at Fenton as if he is about to say something, stops, changes his mind, and reaches down to swipe a gloved finger across the implant. Rubbing off his blood. Then his lips move as he reads the numbers again, repeats the motion of checking his chart, and nods to himself.

He disposes of the rod in the medical waste disposal, wrapped up in a simple paper towel.

“Okay, let’s make this quick.”

Fenton tries not to look at the gaping wound in his arm as the doctor messes with it, but he always gives in and watches anyway. He hates knowing there’s a hole in his body, even if he can’t feel it, but he hates not knowing what the doctor is doing even more. It seems to be taking longer than usual and after a minute the doctor grabs him by the wrist, muttering to hold still. There’s a pressure and Fenton winces as he presses hard. He still can’t feel where the hole is but there’s a pain about an inch below the incision.

“I’m going to have to cut the hole just a little bigger,” the doctor says after a minute. “This won’t hurt.”

Fenton wants to ask what’s wrong. If the doctor was able to remove the implant from a hole it only makes sense he should be able to put a new one in the same hole. Something inside him stops him from asking the question. Instead, he watches as the doctor snips open the skin another couple millimeters and finally the implant just slips in like it should have in the first place. Then the doctor slaps on a few butterfly stitches, tightly wraps up his arm with some white bandage, and tells him he’s all set.

“Leave the bandage on for three to five days and the stitches on for at least a week. You know how to remove the stitches yourself; I assume?”

“Yes,” Fenton confirms because this is old news to him. The first couple of times his mother had helped him remove them when he had got annoyed with them and started picking at them before they were ready to come off. But since then he’s just taken to lounging in long baths and letting them fall off naturally after ten days or so. If they don’t just fall off on their own before then, that is.

“No heavy lifting or putting pressure on the arm for a few days,” Dr. Eagle reminds him as he signs his official implant certificate and hands it to him. He glances at it to make sure his name is spelled correctly. One year he was Fenton Crackhead-Cabrera. “Do you need a note for your job?”

Fenton shakes his head. His memory is flashing back to last year when he had told the doctor he didn’t have a job and the man had just stared at him with barely disguised disgust like he was some lazy do-nothing like all drakes his age. He flushes, despite himself. “I’m not doing any physical labor right now at the lab. Thank you.”

The doctor nods curtly and lets Fenton know to see the receptionist to pay his bill on his way. He’s disappeared back out the door before Fenton even slips off the table. He doesn’t know what to do with the gown, so he rolls it up and throws it in the trash, pretty sure they just dispose of them anyway.

By the time Fenton makes it home, the numbness has started to wear off and a persistent aching is moving down his arm. The tips of his fingers are tingling. After popping a couple of ibuprofen, he climbs in bed and props his arm up on a pillow, resigning himself to a night of television because there isn’t much else he can do with a bum arm. He just hopes it doesn’t ache worse tomorrow morning.

* * *

Gyro is not waiting for him the next morning. Fenton opens the door with the simple voice command “door, please open” and is delighted when it does. It’s a good thing because his arm is swollen this morning and he feels a deep ache all the way to his bones.

By the time his boss shows up, the coffee is ready to go, the sugar packets have been restocked, and Fenton is sitting at his table reading the second set of packets. He’s also drinking from a mug of hot tea, Earl Gray. He doesn’t normally drink tea with caffeine, but eight-hours of straight reading is a tall order, even for a bookworm like him.

“Better,” Gyro says approvingly when he sips at the coffee. Fenton is glad because there had still been leftover grounds from yesterday in the grinder and had been afraid that they would sully the brew. But he had also figured out how to mess with the grinder today to make a finer grain and he thinks that probably made a difference. “I see you’re all set for now. Do you need…what happened to your arm?”

“What?” Fenton asks, confused, already lost in his reading despite himself. He glances down and realizes he, without even realizing it, had pushed his sleeves up on his yellow button-down. The last half-inch or so of his bandage is peaking out on his left arm. He thinks quickly, trying to remember why, and vaguely recalls rolling up his sleeves when he had washed Gyro’s mug in the sink while the coffee was brewing. It had just been a reflex; his brain had been half-asleep at the time and he had been running on instinct and muscle memory. “Oh, it’s, it’s nothing.”

“Do you need sick time already?”

Fenton shakes his head. “I just got my new implant inserted yesterday, it’s not a big deal. Just a little tenderness, it’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“Ah,” Gyro nods. He smiles, cradling his mug in his hands. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“Oh,” Fenton startles. He smiles gratefully at his boss. “I didn’t think you were that concerned about my health, thank you, sir.”

“Not that,” Gyro rolls his eyes at Fenton’s gratitude. “I meant that it’s nice to know you’re on top of your hormone suppressants. I was just reading a few articles about drakes in third-world countries where they don’t enforce the implant and the stories are absolutely terrifying. Thank God we lived in a civilized nation with access to that sort of thing.”

“Uh, yes, thank God,” Fenton agrees, meekly. The comment stings though. He was “just reading” those articles, huh? Probably because he knew he had a duck intern that would soon be working in close quarters with him. Alone. Which also means he was on some level somewhat scared of Fenton and that entire idea is ridiculous.

“I had planned on asking to see your newest implant certification today, actually,” Gyro continued as if Fenton had not said anything. “I just need to make a copy of it for my records. I meant to request it yesterday once you passed the test, but it was so late by then it just slipped my mind. Do you happen to have it on you?”

“I think I left it in the car yesterday,” Fenton says. He closes the folder with the papers, moving the one he’s currently reading so it lays horizontally to the rest, saving his spot. “I can go check right now?”

“Nonsense,” Gyro waves his hand in the air as if he was brushing away the invisible offer before him. “You can wait until your lunch break. There’s this Mexican place called Lucky’s about a mile east, I usually eat their shrimp burritos on Tuesdays. I prefer my lunch at twelve-thirty, but they are often slow on orders so as long as you deliver it to my desk by one that will be fine.”

“Are you asking me to buy you lunch, sir?”

“No, intern,” Gyro sighs, sounding incredibly put upon. “I know you’re probably poor. I’m telling you to order and pick up my lunch. Just ask the computer to order my usual there, it’s connected to my account.”

Fenton nods obediently. He knows this is the sort of stuff he should expect as an intern. Everybody knows interns do all the crap jobs – preparing coffee, cleaning, fetching to-go orders. He’s also glad he doesn’t have to pay out of pocket because his own lunch is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich made with entirely generic ingredients. Paying for food for his boss every day could get expensive.

It’ll be worth it in the long run, he tells himself, just as he told himself as he struggled his way through high school and his bachelor’s degree and his master’s. Once he’s done with all this reading and is allowed to start helping Gyro in the lab for real things will just go up from there. Once he can actually work hand and hand with a scientist as talented and clever as the Gyro Gearloose. He knows a few months with this man will be worth more than four years of university classes.

He was wrong though. Not about Gyro’s genius, but the certificate. It is not in his car. After further thought, Fenton has a fuzzy memory of sticking it in the bag from the drug store when he had stopped to pick up more pain medication last night. It’s probably still in there, maybe on his nightstand.

He tells Gyro such when he brings him his burrito. It’s still piping hot and is burning Fenton’s hands through the foil. The scientist unwraps the burrito immediately, apparently starving as he looks at the steaming meal as if he hasn’t eaten in a week.

“Make sure to bring it tomorrow,” he says before he takes a bite. “I can’t let you continue working here without it. If you forget it tomorrow, I will have to send you home.”

“Sir,” Fenton hesitates, rubbing his palms together nervously. They’re still warm from holding the giant burrito. “State law is that a drake has two-weeks to provide the certificate.”

“This is an unpaid internship,” Gyro corrects him, swallowing. He’s already turned back to the computer where he’s been working on something all morning. “There is no state requirement to provide a certificate for an internship. I just don’t want a drake in my lab without proof he has been neutralized.”

Fenton’s first thought is ‘Huh, I didn’t know that’ about the internship rule, his second thought is ‘Wait, he seriously thinks I am a threat to him? He has a whole head on me. What does he think I could do to him?’

Except he already knows the answer to that. Rape him is the initial response. Then beat, maim, and kill, if he were to be considered a rival for a competing mate that is. But those options are less likely than the first since it is just the two of them in this lab. To be honest, Fenton is more likely to punch the guy in the face than try to rape him. He doesn’t even know what it would feel like to want to do such a thing. He, like most drakes his age, has no idea what sexual arousal feels like.

Normally, the only time a drake is taken off the hormones is to allow for reproduction. During this time, they are closely monitored in a cell, their hormones charted, and once they are able to produce ejaculate, they provide it through self-stimulation repeatedly over the period of a week or so. It is more than is needed, usually, but this way a drake only must live through this the experience once in his life. Any further reproduction he may wish to carry out can rely on the surplus supply. Though often the excess is just donated to mixed-couples wishing to have children.

Women, of course, have no need to go through the entire endeavor and are fully functioning in that regard. But this often hinders relationships between them. It isn’t impossible for a marriage between a male and female duck to be warm and loving, but many women are just not willing to live a life of abstinence. For this reason, female ducks tend to date either other females or different species. Drakes, on the other hand, tend to date each other. When sexuality doesn’t come into play, it is easy to become emotionally attached to other males, and it stops them from living a life alone.

Fenton knows the life of a drake can be a sad, lonely life, if one lets themselves fall into despair too easily. Perhaps that knowledge is why he dedicated himself to science instead at such an early age. Science doesn’t care if you’re unable to feel sexual attraction. Science doesn’t care if you can’t have children naturally. Science is always there, always available.

Except if he doesn’t bring that stupid certificate, apparently. Which is just so damn unfair.

“I am not like that,” he gets out before he can help himself.

“What?” Gyro asks, distractedly. Not even understanding what Fenton is saying.

“I am not like that,” he repeats. “I am not violent; I am not a rapist. I’m just a mild-mannered scientist who wants to help the world.”

“Oh, that,” Gyro brushes off the comment. “Don’t worry about it. We all have to worry about suppressing our true selves sometimes. Without my medication, I’d be a weeping mess half the time and snorting cocaine off a stripper’s ass the other half. Science fixes what nature messed up.”

“But, but I’m not like that,” Fenton insists again, clenching his fists. “You can’t compare bipolar disorder to being accused of being a potential rapist. I know who I am and I’m not that.”

Gyro finally decides to acknowledge Fenton for real. He turns away from his computer and even sets his half-eaten burrito back on its wrapper.

“Interesting,” he muses, looking more deeply at Fenton than he’d like. It makes him feel uncomfortable, the way he’s trying to look directly into his eyes. But he doesn’t turn away or avert his gaze. He holds steady, his jaw set. “You’re a scientist but you’re attempting to argue against common information that has been so thoroughly studied that nobody would ever think of challenging it. I think maybe you’re too close to this topic to fully evaluate the situation, intern.”

“Wouldn’t that just give me more experience with it?” Fenton asks. He lets the aggression fade from his voice because he knows that won’t help the situation. Hell, if anything it just affirms what Gyro probably thinks of his kind. He resorts to reasoning. “If anything, I should be the most informed on how the male duck mind works. That mind is in my skull. I am capable of feeling and thinking and I know what is real and isn’t real.”

“No,” Gyro refutes, shaking his head once more. He moves his rolling chair slightly closer. Fenton feels like he’s being studied now and it’s very disconcerting. “Don’t you see? You can’t know. You have been on hormones since you were eleven. Your mind is changed. Your body is changed. In fact, you’re an exceptional case for how very well the hormones have worked. All hormone-reduced ducks are smaller on average than their unaltered counterparts around the world, but you are so very stunted. You should be two heads taller than me, but you stop at my chin. You should be a dumb brute out there clubbing people over the head, but instead you’re working in a lab towards your doctorate. You are the epitome of success. You are the embodiment of controlled change, like a bonsai tree, well-trimmed and cared for. No, intern, if anything you are a shining example of what science is capable of doing.”

Fenton cannot speak. His stomach is rolling. His face is hot. His fists hurt from clenching them so tightly at his sides. He has never been so completely complimented and insulted at the same time. He had never before imagined how it would feel to be a rodent in an experiment. Now, he doesn’t even need to think about it. He knows how it feels. To be seen not as a person but as a project.

Does Gyro see him as a person or does he look at him and just see the tiny matchstick-sized rod of hormones in his arm?

“I’ve got to get back to reading,” he manages to get out, holding in his anger. “Enjoy your burrito.”

He needs to sit down before he explodes.


	3. Chapter 3

_Observation: It is widely accepted by the scientific community as well as society at large that most if not all male ducks are vicious creatures that possess an inner urge to rape, maim, and kill other living beings. Records throughout history seem to confirm these observations as written documents all over the globe indicate frequent violence, including significant amounts of sexual violence, associated with drakes since the earliest writing of civilized society. Since the introduction of hormonal neutralizers in the late nineteenth century, these numbers had dwindled in nations that have mandated them while those without such laws have continued to see roughly the same number of incidents as previously recorded._

_Question: Is it possible that this information about male ducks is inaccurate? Could there be other factors – i.e. stigma, societal limitations, unfound prejudice – that may have influenced these observations? Is it possible that drakes are not as violent as otherwise indicated?_

_Hypothesis: I believe that further scientific study will show that not all, perhaps not even most, drakes are prone to violent tendencies._

_Method: I will be observing the changes in hormone levels, physical appearance, and mental stability of a male duck who has been_

Fenton peruses what he has typed up on his laptop’s screen, hands still hovering over the keyboard, internally wincing at the sloppiness of it. He’s a doctorate scholar, he should be able to compose a lab paper with more talent than a high school biology student. But he’s never worked on an experiment like this before...and he’s nervous. There are so many variables. So many clues he may overlook. So many ways he could mess this entire thing up. This is a flawed experiment. One subject, no neutral observers. He can't de-age himself and experience natural duck puberty, he is already an imperfect subject.

But he can’t concentrate on that right now. He knows what he’s planning to do, it is in his head even if it isn’t on the paper quite yet, and his hands are shaking so hard right now he is afraid he’s about to vibrate right out the window of his third-story apartment. He can go back and complete the proposal section of the paper once his nerves have calmed down.

Right now though…

He needs to do this tonight. Before his arm has more time to heal. He can go back to editing the paper, adding the variables and such, that tedious stuff, later. But this is something he can’t hold off on. The longer he holds off, the more difficult it will be. He needs to perform surgery.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too dramatic. He just needs to reopen the barely healed slit in his arm. Then he needs to use a pair of tweezers to extract the rod buried in his flesh and hope it doesn’t get too slippery with blood to pull out and if it does he has to be prepared to try to yank it through the gore of his flesh before he chickens out and-

He shudders. Thinking about it is not helping. But sometimes it is hard not to think. He is a scientist; thinking is what he is best at.

It’s been nearly an hour since he took the Oxycodone he had lifted from his mother’s medicine cabinet earlier that day. She doesn’t need it, her back injury from two years ago has fully healed, and she won’t notice one single pill missing from the bottle. He unwraps the ace bandage pressing the ice pack against his arm and pokes at the twig-like excuse for an appendage. He can feel the sensation but it’s numb, like how his mouth feels after getting a shot at the dentist. He needs to be quick before the feeling comes back.

He already snipped carefully through the paper stitches earlier with a pair of needle-nosed scissors, careful not to touch the sore wound. He would have just removed them if he could but they’re too fresh and it would be a pain to get them off. He has another pack of butterfly stitches ready to go, along with bandages and gauze and antibacterial cream and whatever else is in this first-aid kit he had picked up along with the stitches at the drug store.

He closes his eyes when he presses the razor lightly against the end of the wound. Then he realizes how stupid that is and watches intently as it slices through his flesh.

It still hurts. Even with the ice and the drugs, it still hurts. He grits his teeth as he cuts through the small regrowth of skin that has formed since he was sliced open yesterday evening. There is blood. He uses a clean washcloth to sop at it and reaches for the tweezers before he loses his nerve. He needs to hurry up and do this. He can’t spend minutes worrying about the blood. He just needs to-

The rod is between the ends of the tweezers and then it’s thrown onto the top of the desk. Fenton is wiping down his arm with alcohol and it burns like a bitch, but he needs to make sure he’s clean. Blood is getting into his feathers and he can’t get the stitches on because there’s so much blood. He presses the washcloth down hard. It hurts but he needs to stop the bleeding.

It works. After only a minute the blood has slowed, significantly. It’s still oozing out but he’s able to pat down the skin and get the stitches in place. He wipes off more blood, applies the cream, and wraps up his arm in a bandage. He wraps too tightly and before long his hand is starting to tingle but he doesn’t want to loosen it yet, not until he’s sure the bleeding has stopped.

There will be bruising. He already knows that. There will be bruising, and soreness, and he’ll have to wear this bandage for several days. But he was already supposed to be wearing a bandage for several days so who will notice?

Fenton holds his left arm against his chest, cradling it with his right. Suddenly he’s worrying about infection and gangrene and nerve damage even though he knows that all of those thoughts are ridiculous. He just reopened a wound is all. If something happens in the next day or two, he could go to the hospital and claim his stitches got snagged on something and they’d fix him right up.

But he’d have to try to get the rod back in his arm.

He turns to stare at the repulsive thing still lying on the table. Despite all the blood, it almost seems innocent lying there, like a newborn babe. White with black numbers printed on the side: 142978141622. The serial number that the doctor will have to confirm in a year is on the implant when it is removed from his arm for a second arm.

This is not permanent. Fenton cannot walk around without an implant indefinitely. What he is doing is illegal. He is breaking the law.

But sometimes science doesn’t obey the laws.

* * *

_Day 1: Everything seems normal so far. However, I was not expecting any changes this quickly. My arm is very sore and was leaking clear fluid when I woke this morning. I washed it and re-bandaged it before going to work. I’m feeling a little tired and am worried maybe I have an infection from my wound. I’m going to take some leftover antibiotics I have from when I had bronchitis last year, just in case. For the record, that will be 500 mg of amoxicillin every eight hours. I doubt this will interfere with any results of my study, but it is a variable that must be considered._

_Day 2: I believe my assessment of possible infection was premature. I was feeling much better today. I’ll keep taking the full course of antibiotics, but my energy levels have returned to normal. My arm is still sore but is appears to be healing once more. Nothing has changed otherwise._

_Day 3: My mood has not changed. My arm is looking much better today, the pain has faded unless I poke at the wound. I forgot to take one of my amoxicillin capsules this morning as I woke up an hour early, well rest-rested, and it threw off my usual routine. I was not able to medicate until my lunch break. I do not think this is going to affect the wound, however. I slept unusually well last night. That may be a sign of changing hormone levels, but I may have just been unusually tired when I went to bed._

_Day 4: I woke up with a lot of energy this morning and decided to go for a run before work. I miss running. I used to do it regularly until I enrolled in graduate school and then I just sort of ran out of free time. I might start up again. I would like to hypothesize that the changing hormones are positively affecting my energy levels, but I recognize this also may be a symptom of the placebo effect. My legs are aching. I do not expect to see any muscular change influenced by hormonal changes for several months, minimum._

_Day 5: No changes – went for another run this afternoon._

_Day 6: I took a day off from running, my legs are sore. I finished off the last of my antibiotic course. My wound looks almost healed. The color of the skin around it is healthy, and inflammation has decreased considerably._

_Day 7: Woke up early again this morning and went for a run. I was unusually hungry at lunch, but it might be a direct result of the increase in physical activity. However, I cannot write off the impact the hormonal changes may also have on my appetite. I have been craving meat more often than usual but again, this also may be due to the exercise. Muscles need protein to heal._

_Day 8: Another afternoon run. My paper stitches finished coming off completely in the tub this evening. I also felt slightly ill after eating breakfast this morning. I felt fine by the time I reached work so it could have been a number of things that caused it._

_Day 9: I took another day off from running. I am thinking of taking up some other forms of exercise once school is back in session – muscle toning in some form. I have free access to the school gym with my student ID. I understand that changing my normal routine is a variable in itself but the excess energy has made it difficult for me to concentrate on my own projects in the evening otherwise. While I do understand that an increase in exercise can also result in an increase in energy which starts a cycle, I feel that this sudden increase aligns too well to be pure coincidence. Still, best not to jump to conclusions, this experiment already has too many variables._

_Day 10: No changes – went for another run this afternoon._

_Day 11: I awoke with an erection this morning. I haven’t had an erection since I was young, in the way all boys are capable of spontaneously forming them from a very young age. It was a strange feeling and a strange sight - much larger than the ones I had as a boy, but I recognize it was still small for a fully mature drake of even my size. This is the first time my body has been able to achieve erection since I was eleven. I know some drakes do not react as strongly to the hormones as I have and may still get them occasionally while sleeping but this has never been my case. It went away when I got up to pee. I should have measured it - next time. I went for another run this afternoon._

_Day 12: I pulled a muscle running this afternoon. I’ll be taking a few days off. I think perhaps I have been working myself too hard, too quickly. I am trying to get back to my high school performance levels, but the duck body cannot go from nothing to an eight-minute mile in two weeks._

_Day 13: My boss noticed my limp this morning. He commented on it but didn’t offer any pity or even offer to let me skip out on my usual lunch duty. I suppose some people would call that heartless behavior but to be honest I just really appreciate that he didn’t feel the need to condescend me like some have in the past. If I was feeling emotional changes due to the hormones, I feel like this interaction may have angered me? He did offer me some painkillers which I declined. I took a long bath this evening to help relax the muscles and found I achieved a half-erection in the tub. Since it never full formed, I did not try to measure it._

_Day 14: I was less hungry today. This lends theory to my proposal that my increased appetite was activity-based and not hormone-based._

_Day 15: I woke up starving and made waffles and sausage before work. Maybe yesterday’s assessment was incorrect. I think my leg will be good enough to return to running tomorrow. I am usually a slow healer so this may be an indicator of an increase in healing abilities. Or rather, an indicator of the implant’s ability to hinder healing in male ducks. This is in no way surprising. While early studies had proposed that neutralized drakes accumulated more injuries and sicknesses due to the possession of weaker bodies as a result of the reduced puberty outcomes, later studies showed that even diseases otherwise normal people could recover from quickly would often disproportionally impact neutralized drakes including those put on hormones later in life. The fatality rate of male ducks over the age of sixty due to complications with the flu is twice that of male chickens with otherwise similar statistics._

_Day 16: I woke up this morning and went for a run before work. It was a short one because I did not want to risk further injury to my leg, but it seems to be fully healed. My arm is fully healed now as well. The skin is slightly pink, but I expect even that to fade within a couple of days. My appetite was normal._

_Day 17: Another morning erection. I took out the measuring tape from the sewing kit my mother gave me when I moved out to measure it. It measured just below five inches, but it had been starting to soften by the time I found the tape. I think it may just be slightly over five when totally hard. It’s a deep pink. I feel like I need to describe this for scientific reasons but honestly, this is embarrassing. It looks like a normal drake penis. The ribbing is softer than I remember it being. I was too busy measuring my penis to run this morning, so I went this afternoon once more. It started raining on the way back home, I hope I don’t catch something from being out in the rain._

_Day 18: No signs of illness. I thought everything was going as normal but today my mother made a strange comment over dinner: she said I talked about my boss a lot. Specifically, she asked if I could please talk about something else “for once.” I had not even realized I talked about him excessively. He is my boss and my mentor, however, and I don’t feel any ill will for him. I admire him, if anything, he is a great man. However, now I am feeling somewhat paranoid. Could my admiration for him be something more? Could I be feeling jealous of him? Of course, I want to be like him and sometimes he makes me feel inferior because he is so deeply talented, but I never have any violent thoughts. It just makes me want to strive to be more like him. Is this an uncalled-for side effect? An increase in motivation, perhaps? Or maybe this is like some “second puberty” where I feel the need to seek out an elder to lead me. Or maybe my mother is just bored of listening to me talk and all of this is just something I’m making up in my head. I will pay closer attention to these feelings. I went for a longer jog than usual after dinner to try to clear my head._

_Day 19: I’m starting to wish I had included somebody else in this study. I cannot trust my own observations. A subject cannot study themselves. A subject is always biased. But who could I have possibly asked to help me? I went for another long run today. At least I have that. I asked my mother for thirds today at dinner and she was very happy about that because she’s always been very proud of her lasagna. It seemed to taste better today than usual._

_Day 20: First official day of the semester though I only have classes on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. My boss finally allowed me to aid him in the lab now that his insurance forms through the school kick in with my official position as a student intern solidified. I was careful to observe my feelings when around him. He is strict but not unkind once you know how to deal with him. He is very picky about how he runs his lab and prone to fits of rage if things aren’t just right. I think he probably has OCD on top of his bipolar disorder. It would be rude to ask._

_Day 21: Long day. Ran in the morning, work, then school. Ate a bunch of free pizza they were giving away on campus as I walked to class._

_Day 22: I masturbated this morning for the first time in my life. It was not that I particularly felt like I wanted to do it so much as I felt like I should try it just to see how it felt. I’m assuming it went normal since the descriptions I’ve read online mimic what I experienced from the act. A very small amount of semen came out. If I had thought about it, I would have measured the amount, but I lost my head. If I do it again, I’ll measure next time. My boss asked about how my first day of classes went. He seemed actually interested in something I had to say for once and I couldn’t help but feel strangely happy about that. It’s one thing to be happy when he praises my work, another thing to be happy that he just wants to talk to me. I am unsure what this means, further study required. I took the afternoon off from running, I had a lot of reading to do for class already._

_Day 23: Work, workout, school. I tried out the treadmills at the gym before going to class. I wanted to try out the weights, but I was sort of intimidated by the guys in that section. There is a strength training class on Tuesdays at 5:30, if I rush over and find parking immediately after work, I might be able to get in._

_Day 24: I masturbated again this morning and then this afternoon after I went for a run. This morning I produced about a half teaspoon of semen, but in the afternoon, it was just a little over a quarter teaspoon. I guess it is slow to regenerate. Afterward, I felt lazy and just decided to take the rest of the evening off to binge-watch cartoons on Netflix. It is Friday and I feel like I deserve a break. I will work on homework during the weekend._

_Day 25: I masturbated three times today. I recognize this is slightly excessive, but this is not necessarily a sign of hypersexuality. It’s the weekend and masturbation is pleasurable and it is something new to me. Maybe I am over-partaking a bit but is it so different than say gorging on your favorite meal at the holidays because you haven’t had it in a year? I will try to abstain tomorrow and see if the urges become overwhelming. I went for another run, tried a different route with more hills today. My breath is considerably better than it was three weeks ago. I’m starting to see a little muscle on my calves that I swear wasn’t there before._

_Day 26: I successfully abstained from masturbation. It wasn’t hard. I just found other things to do – homework and working out. I visited my mother, and we went shopping together. She bought me some new clothes for school. I thought I had gained some muscle but all my sizes were the same so I may just be looking for something that wasn’t there._

_Day 27: I experienced nocturnal emissions last night for the first time in my life. I couldn’t measure the ejaculate because my bedding soaked it up, but it seemed like more than previous times. I had to take a shower this morning to get it out of my feathers so I couldn’t run this morning and I also couldn’t run this afternoon since I spent a good chunk of it in the apartment laundry waiting for a dryer to free up for my bedding. My boss asked about my weekend and I mentioned I went shopping. He told me he could tell my shirt was new and complimented the color. He said it makes the color of my feathers “pop,” whatever that means. I’m going to masturbate before bed tonight once more just so I don’t wake up with my freshly washed sheets all sticky once more. Admittedly, this is not an unpleasant task at hand, excuse the pun._

_Day 28: Work, strength-training class, brain-training class. I’m about to go to sleep but I just finished masturbating once more. I think this is probably going to become part of my evening routine. I do not feel masturbation once a day is excessive and I wish to avoid nocturnal emissions._

_Day 29: My boss asked me to go eat with him for lunch today. He even paid. We went to this seafood place and he had two glasses of white wine and insisted I have one as well. I was hesitant because I don’t know if wine will exacerbate any mental inconsistencies, but he was so insistent, and I assumed one glass would be fine. There did not seem to be any immediate side effects, but I will keep a close eye on my mood for the next couple of days just in case. Instead of returning to the lab, we went to a nearby park and he gave me a drunken, impromptu lecture on AI theory underneath the shade of a tree. The man truly is a genius. A madman, but a genius. I’m glad I went for a run this morning since the wine made me sleepy. I came home, masturbated, took a nap, then got up and worked on homework for the rest of the night._

_Day 30: Work, treadmill, class. I produced a full teaspoon of ejaculate today._

_Day 31: I regret starting this experiment. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? I think I am developing sexual feelings for my boss. No, I know I am developing sexual feelings for him. That is not the right description. Feeling is too emotional. Attraction, I guess, is a better term. Sexual attraction. I was working with a microscope today and he came up beside me to help me adjust it (it’s one of his personal inventions and can be picky) and something about the way the warmth of his body pressed against mine - I became hard under my lab coat. What if I lose my mind and try to rape the most important man in my life?_

_Day 32: I think I was just tired when I wrote the last journal. I slept late this morning and after I had time to think about it, the more I realized it was just a purely physical response to external stimuli. He is soft and warm; I possess a body that is newly capable of appreciating sensuality. It is expected that any sort of touch may, for a while at least, have the ability to arouse me. The fact I spend so much time with him just upped the probability that he would be the first to elicit such a response from me. I worked on homework all day then went for a very long run this afternoon. I masturbated this morning and plan to do so again before I go to sleep. I only produced half a teaspoon this morning._

_Day 33: I ran this morning then spent the rest of the day helping my mother around the house. We ordered Chinese for delivery and spent the evening watching one of those shows about serial killers she loves so much. It makes me worry; I think maybe I’ll get her one of those online security systems for Christmas this year. If my school refund is big enough. I think they’re only about two hundred dollars but she’s worth the money. I produced a teaspoon this evening._

_Day 34: I think I may be going crazy. I thought I had this all figured out but maybe I was wrong. I can’t stop staring at my boss. Is it because I’m so paranoid that I will do something wrong that I become preoccupied or is it that I want to look at him?_

_Day 35: My boss is very attractive. I don’t think that it’s unusual to think that. But I never really paid attention to how people looked before. Is this just how normal people always think? Can you admire how somebody looks without it being more than admiration? He has a very nice jawline, and he is tall. He’s scrawny but I like that for some reason. I love his head feathers. The way his hat fits is just perfect, I wonder if he spent years perfecting that look._

_Day 36: Work, workout, school. I had trouble concentrating today in class._

_Day 37: Today when I was masturbating, I suddenly had this fantasy in my head of my boss holding me close and kissing my head and asking me to cum for him and it left me shaking._

_Day 38: Are these feelings normal? What are normal feelings? I want to have sex with my boss. Is it normal to want to have sex with somebody who has no idea you even think they’re attractive? Can you rape somebody in your mind? Am I thought-raping my boss and mentor?_

_Day 39: I masturbated to the thought of my penis in his mouth today. I imagined him choking on it and for some reason that helped finish me off quickly and I hate this experiment. I think I need to put the rod back in but my arm healed weeks ago and I’m afraid to cut myself back open. How did I ever think I would have the nerve to cut myself open again?_

_Day 40: What is the difference between rape, sex, and making love? I wish somebody would explain this all to me. He’s so damn amazing, I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anybody._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be back to normal style, don't worry about it all being weird journal style.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenton makes the long, tedious drive to St. Canard alone on a starless Friday night. It’s raining out, a cold, dismal drizzle, and the too-narrow bridge connecting to the island-city is packed bumper to bumper with honking automobiles. He’s stuck crawling along below a snail’s pace, unsure if it’s just the normal post-work traffic or the weekend traffic, or if a car crashed in the rain somewhere on the other side of the bridge. Either way, it’s a miserable experience. He could have waited until tomorrow morning; if he had awoken early and made the drive before the late morning traffic crowded the streets, he would have had relatively clear roads to himself. But he didn’t want to wait until Saturday. He had barely made it until Friday. The sharp angles of the object in his pocket poke into his leg whenever he presses down on the clutch, pinching him.

Drake knows he is coming. In fact, he’s glad that he is, he’s been trying to get him to visit for months. There is a performance tonight, one of those melodramatic period pieces that Drake always seems to get cast in, but Fenton knows where the spare apartment key is. There are extremely detailed instructions to the location of the key on his phone, as well as a little purple heart following the command to make himself at home once he’s made it inside until they arrive late in the evening.

“If you get here by six you can see the show?” Drake had nudged over the phone, but he must have sensed that something was off by the way Fenton was breathing (heavily), and talking (quickly), and swallowing (frequently), and he didn’t push it. He just told Fenton he was happy that he was coming and that they’d go out for Saturday brunch at this place he knows by the water.

But seriously, six? Has Drake never driven to St. Canard on a Friday evening? He works in the theatre business; he should know how many of Stoopsburg’s residences make the drive across the bridge for the nightlife of the city – the shows, the clubs, the drugs. Fenton will be lucky if he makes it to the apartment by eight, let alone at the theatre by six.

When his phone begins to buzz on the passenger seat, he grabs at it and brings it to his ear, assuming it is Drake yet again. He’s called him four times today, just to make sure he’s still coming, and to check and see if maybe he changed his mind about leaving early to see the show. Except when he sighs into the receiver “what now?” it is a decidedly less masculine voice answering him than Drake’s normal rasp.

“Is that any way to speak to your mother?”

“Oh! Sorry, M’ma,” he says sheepishly into the phone. He adjusts the way he’s holding it and presses it more firmly against his ear. “I’m driving. I couldn’t check to see who was calling.”

“Pollito!” She scolds him and he can almost see her standing there with her hands folded across her chest, tapping a foot at him. “Why are you driving and talking on the phone?”

“Because…you called?” Fenton offers up the obvious explanation, pathetically. He knows it isn’t a real answer, she’s always taught him not to pick up the phone while driving and she just caught him red-handed breaking the family rule. After how many fatal accidents she’s seen on the job involving young people and their phones. “I’m stuck in traffic right now, M’ma, I swear I’m not in any danger of crashing. I’m not even moving. Did you need something?”

“I’m just calling to see if you were interested in coming over for dinner,” she says, but there’s that old familiar hint of manipulation in her tone. The one that says if he doesn’t visit, she’ll be guilt-tripping him for the next week. Unless he has a decent excuse not to show up. As much as he loves his mother, he could do without the co-dependency in their relationship sometimes. “I’ve got enchiladas in the slow cooker and they’ll be done any time now.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t today,” he apologizes, lacing his voice with genuine regret. He loves his mother’s cooking and sitting in her nice, warm, cozy kitchen right now sounds so much better than the honking and the rain and the droplets of water that have started to drip through the crack near the top of the driver side’s window. Traffic is beginning to move again. He moves the phone between his ear and shoulder, trying to balance it there as he steers with his left hand and shifts into second gear with his right. “I’m on my way to St. Canard.”

“St. Canard?” Fenton can hear the disgust in her voice. She scoffs. “Why would you be going to that sorry excuse for a city on a Friday evening? You’re not going to one of those seedy nightclubs, are you? You could get mugged.”

“It’s fine, M’ma,” he assures her, faking a forced cheerfulness into his voice. “I’m just meeting up with Drake. He invited me to one of his shows tonight.”

“Oh, right, your little friend from school,” she hums. The spite drains from her voice and Fenton knows that was the right answer. He is not ignoring his mother; he is visiting an old friend. “I forgot he moved over there. He was such a nice boy. Alright. But don’t wander off on your own. There are a lot of dangerous people in that city. Text me when you get there and again before you go to sleep just so I know you’re okay.”

“Yes, M’ma.”

He tells her he loves her before hanging up. The traffic is still putting along slowly enough that the car keeps coasting along in second gear, barely, but after another minute it slows again, and he shifts down and then stops. Another five minutes and he should be off this God-forsaken bridge. Hopefully.

While he waits for the traffic to start moving once more, he replays the short conversation with his mother in his head. She’s worried about him getting hurt. About the dangerous people in St. Canard. As if Fenton isn’t the dangerous one here. As if he isn’t the rabid dog let off his chain. He can’t tell her that though, she’d be so ashamed of him if she knew the truth about her only child.

Sex is almost constantly on his mind now.

He’s trying to consider this situation scientifically still but it’s becoming more and more difficult with each passing day. He understands that a lot of stuff is happening to his body – things are changing inside him. Hormones are flooding his system. But understanding and feeling are two different things entirely. Maybe if he just waits it out this is something that he will be capable of getting over naturally. Maybe with a little time his libido will calm down and become more manageable. Maybe he will be able to control it. Maybe he will gain the ability to tell his own body when and where and what kind of fantasies are acceptable.

Those are a lot of maybes, however. It is just as likely…no, even more likely, going by the studies, that it will just get worse. Fenton charged recklessly into this study determined, certain of his own brain, but what is a brain but chemicals and matter and electric pulses? He is done relying on his own biased emotions; he recognizes he is starting to lose control of them. If this goes on much longer, he may lose himself entirely. And if he loses his own ability to think then does that mean he will just cease to exist? Is he erasing his own mind? Even more important, what if he becomes unstoppable. He might hurt someone.

He might hurt _him_.

Fenton almost did today.

He thinks he almost did, anyway.

It started off normally. Just another day in the lab. Gyro wanted to show off the results of one of his newest projections. He had proposed to Fenton only a couple of weeks ago a type of hay that glows in the dark. Gyro claimed it would be revolutionary, as he claimed all his inventions are revolutionary, though he could not necessarily explain what glowing hay would be used for. No matter, Gyro’s most brilliant inventions often seem to have no obvious purpose behind their creation. He is often so preoccupied with the ifs of accomplishing something, he gives little thought to the whys of doing so.

This was one of those occasions. And until this morning, Fenton hadn’t heard a peep about the project since they had first discussed it over greasy slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza in the breakroom. He had all but forgotten about the idea until Gyro had pulled him aside, for some reason holding a covered serving platter in his hands.

“Follow me, intern” his mentor had instructed, leading him into the small closet where all the chemicals and glassware are kept. Still holding the silver dishware in his arms, he requested Fenton close the door behind them and hit the switch. Inside that tiny little room, it had been pitch black with the overhead lights turned off and the only proof that Fenton was in the presence of another living being was the sound of steady breathing nearby that was not his own.

That, and the smell of him.

It’s a smell that Fenton has come to recognize as being distinctly “Gyro Gearloose.” Motor oil, chalk, Sharpie ink. Some sort of minty scent – his shampoo, he thinks. Something more classically musky. That generic scent that big businesses seem to think men are supposed to smell like – deodorant, probably, as Gyro doesn’t seem like the cologne type. And then something that is always unidentifiable, something sort of dry and reminiscent of cornstarch. Fenton is pretty sure that’s just the natural smell of his mentor’s skin and feathers.

Fenton had never paid much attention to how others smelled in the past. Not unless it was something obviously good, like a sweet perfume, or something obviously bad, like body odor. But now…

He could identify Gyro Gearloose by just the scent of one of his dirty shirts. His scent is intoxicating. Fenton would concentrate the essence of Gyro Gearloose into liquid form and spray it all over his sheets at night if he could.

But he is still in his head enough to recognize how disturbing that thought is.

After a minute of standing in the dark, he had asked quietly what he was there for and Gyro’s voice, proud and smug as always, had answered in the dark “Behold!” Suddenly there was a bright green glow before him, and Fenton was staring at a pile of luminescent straw. It had reminded him of Halloween decorations, the kind of foreboding green light one would see on a haunted hayride.

“You did it,” Fenton gushed, admiringly. He reaches out to touch the hay, then stopped himself before Gyro could slap him away. “Can I touch it? Is it safe?”

“Just make sure to wash your hands after,” Gyro had instructed. Fenton had picked up one single strand of the dry grass and held it up over his head, looking at it from below to see it separate from the surprisingly bright glow of the rest of the pile. The one strand emitted enough light to make out the outlines of his fingers. It was only about three inches long.

“Which luciferin did you decide on?” Fenton had asked, still in awe of the genius crowded so closely beside him.

“The freshwater snail,” Gyro said. He sounded like he was smiling and when Fenton had looked away from the strand to glance at his mentor, he was surprised that the hay was brilliant enough to fully illuminate his face. Admittedly, it was a startling image, unnerving how the glow all came from below his face like a little kid shining a flashlight under his chin to scare his friends. “I initially began experiments with the shrimp, but they proved more difficult to keep alive than I suspected.”

“It’s so bright,” Fenton had said, admiringly. But he couldn’t look away from Gyro’s face. The way he looked in that light was just…astounding. He looked like an absolute madman, an evil genius, the sort that would resurrect the dead in some terrible old horror movie. And Fenton adored that vision of him.

“Yes, a little too bright,” Gyro admitted, tsking, but still sounding pleased with himself. He looked excited, his eyes large and glowing with green fire. “I’ll scale back the dosage next time. It’s not finished yet. Snail luciferin isn’t the most toxic substance available, but it still isn’t fit for long-term consumption by any livestock. Maybe it would be good for building a hay maze, or for seating at some rodeo. I still have some tests to run.”

The urge to kiss him had been suffocating. The urge to touch him had been excruciating. Fenton had been glad for the darkness because he was sure his erection would have been visible even beneath his lab coat. If it wasn’t, the redness of his face would have been a giveaway. Gyro continued to explain his method and the further tests he wished to carry out and as he talked he became more and more animated and more and more attractive and Fenton’s fingers began to twitch as he thought about what he wanted to do, what he could do.

He could hit the platter of hay from Gyro’s hands. Leave it a scattered heap on the floor.

He could grab him by the shoulders, shove him backward into the shelves. Be damned all the broken glassware and spilled chemicals.

He could kiss him. Hard enough to knock his head against the shelf behind him. Maybe leave him a little woozy.

He could shove his hand down the front of Gyro’s slacks and grab for his dick. Squeeze it hard so that the other man was unable to escape his grasp.

He could bite at his throat. He could wrap his hands around that throat. He could wrap his legs around his waist. He could shove his way into him and make him scream and beg for, beg for…

What?

Fenton doesn’t want to think about it.

He doesn’t want to think about what he could have done. What he thought about doing. He doesn’t want to think about how damn good Gyro had smelled and how close he had been and how soft his feathers had been when he kept accidentally brushing up against him in that confined space.

He’s off the damn bridge, finally, and he just wants these thoughts to end. Now. He doesn’t want to think about how many times he has fantasized about having sex with the man who has given him so much opportunity. The man who has chosen to entrust him with so many responsibilities and secrets.

Traffic picks up considerably once the bridge is behind him. The streets are not empty and he still has to settle into the same start, stop, start, stop routine with all the lights and signs, but before long Fenton finds himself parked outside of the seven-story stone building where his phone has led him. He recognizes it by sight, by the shrubs lining the side of the entrance, though he has only been here twice.

He had visited Drake at his old studio apartment more often, housed on the top floor of a shorter, stouter brick building in a seedier part of the city. But Fenton had been going for his Bachelor’s then and it had been considerably less time-consuming than working towards his Master’s or his current schedule as a full-term intern. Drake moved into the stone building after he had started dating that boyfriend of his; he wouldn’t have been able to afford a two-bedroom place on just his actor salary even in the old part of the city. The boyfriend is a mechanic or plumber or something, Fenton is frankly too intimidated by the hulk of a duck to ask for details about his place of employment.

The key is where he had said it would be, hidden behind a pipe in the basement laundry of the building. It is simultaneously a foolish and genius place to hide it. With all the apartments in this building, even if somebody were to stumble upon its hiding place, how would they be able to tell which door it unlocked? The teal-green pipe is covered in cobwebs and dust and is immediately blocked by an open trashcan full of lint and old feathers. Fenton uses a discarded plastic clothes hanger with a missing hook to hit away the cobwebs before reaching for it.

Their apartment is on the fifth floor. The door unlocks easily, not catching like Fenton’s own often does, forcing him to jiggle with it until it finally clicks into place. Fenton nearly steps on a stray letter on the ground as he pushes it open. Somebody must have shoved it under the door, one side is wrinkled, pinched looking. He picks it up on his way in and tries not to look at the return address, afraid of breaching his friend’s privacy, but he can’t help but get a glimpse of the words _Actors Guild_ as he places it gingerly on the coffee table.

It’s strange being alone in somebody’s home when they’re not there. The lights are off but there’s a fish tank to one wall, a twenty-gallon he guesses by the size of it, and the light from it illuminates the room well enough to walk around. The air feels very still and it’s very quiet.

“Drake?” Fenton calls out, just to make sure nobody is here. Like the boyfriend. He has never felt particularly safe alone with Launchpad. It’s not that he’s ever given him a reason to doubt him, but he’s just so…big.

He waits for a moment, hearing no reply, then calls out a little louder. Just the bubbling of the aquarium filter greets him. Then a click and a whoosh of air. The heater coming on, trying to take the chill out of the air from the rain outside.

He and Drake are close but not the ‘hanging around each other’s home when they’re not there’ close. The couch is the best place to camp out to wait. It’s not a large place but it’s not small. Only one bathroom but no separate dining room. Still, compared to Fenton’s studio it might as well be a mansion.

Honestly, it’s a nice apartment. Decorated in shades of cream and turquoise. Relatively cheap self-assembled Ikea furniture probably, from the look of it, but it gives the place a tasteful, modern look. All clean lines and natural wood. The kitchen table is a close match to the same coffee table where Fenton had set the letter from the Guild. He knows this from past visits when Drake had given him the full tour – living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, second bedroom – but he chooses not to venture in there today. It feels too much like snooping to venture past the first room.

The couch is big and so plush that Fenton feels like it’s trying to swallow him alive as he sinks into it. He ends up grabbing a cushion to put under his behind to stop himself from sliding into it. It’s made for somebody large, somebody who needs a lot of room to sprawl out. Somebody not like Fenton. Though it will be comfortable to sleep on, at least, plenty of room. For now, he just unpacks his backpack and gets settled in for a long wait.

The floating clock on the otherwise black television screen hanging directly across from the couch reads seven fifty-two.

When did Drake say they would be home? After ten, Fenton seems to recall him saying. Not that late for a show but he supposes it isn’t Broadway. He just hopes they aren’t that late. He just really, really needs to talk to somebody right now. In person. Somebody besides his mother or his boss.

He attempts to complete some of the homework he brought with him as he waits. Reading seems like the best bet at first because it is a relatively simple project – just a book and his eyes, maybe a pillow to lay under his head. After the first ten minutes, he finds he has read the same page half a dozen times, so he sets aside that and pulls out some mathematical work instead. Numbers are something he has always been able to take comfort in during his times of turmoil. The ability to just get lost in absolute facts is reassuring. There is always an answer with numbers. No morals or gray areas or partial credit. Just correct or incorrect.

It works, sort of. At least he finishes one of his assignments, but the time still drags. Nerves. When you’re anxious, something that normally makes the time fly by can be reduced to a crawl. He finds his concentration draining several times, startled by his own actions when he realizes he’s staring at the fish gliding across the tank and idly tapping his pen on the notepad instead of actually accomplishing anything. It makes him thing of he underwater lab and how he sometimes catches Gyro standing silently beside one of the windows, watching the fish school by.

Finally, he hears the keys in the door. A metallic jingle. Voices. The boyfriend is talking too loudly, downright exuberantly, and Fenton can hear Drake shushing him. His voice sounds drawn and just a little raspier than usual.

“LP, it’s ten at night, you’re going to wake up the entire floor.”

“Oops, sorry.”

Fenton feels awkward just sitting on the couch waiting for him, but his lap is full of books and papers and standing quickly would be more of a hassle than it’s worth. Drake startles when he sees him sitting there in the glow of the bubbling aquarium as if he hadn’t been expecting his presence. He bumps back into Launchpad, but the man is built as solid as a brick wall and doesn’t budge an inch. He does reach up and catch Drake’s bicep protectively as if catching him from a fall. Drake grins.

“Hey Fenton, I thought you would be asleep,” Drake waves at him. There’s some paint around his eyes. Or maybe it’s eyeliner. Something black and gunky. Was he playing a villain with a mask or something? Fenton feels guilty that he can’t even remember the name of the play he said he was performing in tonight.

Fenton smiles awkwardly and waves back at him.

“Hey Fen,” Launchpad greets, barging right over to him and giving him a big clap on the shoulder. It’s mildly painful and Fenton subconsciously draws his shoulders in. The boyfriend’s hands are as big and meaty as a Christmas ham, Fenton swears. And he always insists on calling everybody by some stupid nickname. He holds up a box in his other ham-fist. “We brought leftovers if you’re hungry.”

To be honest, Fenton is starving. But he just shakes his head. He doesn’t like accepting handouts. Especially from somebody he barely knows. Besides, his stomach feels nauseous with nerves. He reaches up to rub his throbbing shoulder.

“I gotta go pop in the shower,” Drake smiles apologetically at Fenton. “I’m tired and if I start yawning my eyes will start watering and if my eyes start watering the makeup will run into them and it’s just not a nice situation. You’ll be okay with LP for a few minutes, right?”

“Of course, he will,” Launchpad beams, touching Fenton’s shoulder again. He’s gentler about touching him but now he shakes him as if he were a dog with its toy instead of outright slapping him. “Me and Fen always get along fine, don’t we buddy?”

They’ve met four times. But Fenton just nods, weakly, afraid to say otherwise. Launchpad is already dropping onto the couch next to him on the side closest to the door. He must weigh as much as a fully stocked refrigerated. Beneath them, the couch creaks, and the cushions bend. The handful of books lying between slide towards him, gathering in the space beside his legs and rear-end.

Drake calls back to them something about being back in ten minutes as he disappears into the hallway bathroom, the only bathroom. Now Fenton can’t even use the excuse that he needs to go if he wants to get away from this behemoth of a duck.

Launchpad sprawls his giant arms across the back of the couch, making Fenton feel even more insignificant in comparison to his hulking size. He smiles at Fenton and Fenton half-smiles back. It feels, and he’s sure looks, very forced. When Fenton doesn’t say anything, the boyfriend’s smile somehow widens. How many teeth does this man have?

After an awkward ten seconds or so, Launchpad leans forward and grabs a remote off the coffee table. He switches on the decent-sized television against the wall and they’re met with a sudden barrage of loud cartoon noises. A cartoon cat chases a cartoon mouse around a sleeping dog. Fenton wasn’t even aware that Tom and Jerry still played on network television. It is late. Maybe Tom and Jerry aren’t considered children’s cartoons anymore.

“You missed a great show tonight,” Launchpad says, seemingly more comfortable speaking over the noise than over the previous silence. “The twist at the end blew my mind. Didn’t see it coming.”

“Was this opening night?” Fenton asks politely. Drake hadn’t mentioned that. Now he feels even worse for not making the effort to see it.

“Nah, this is the fifth week of its run,” Launchpad denies. He’s flipping through the channels now and do they subscribe to anything for actual adults? It just seems to be an endless stream of animation. “I’ve been there every night for Drake’s performance.”

“Then why…” Fenton trails off. He just shakes his head. There isn’t any use to asking questions.

“He’s auditioning for lead in the next one,” Launchpad continues as if he didn’t hear Fenton’s earlier response. “Been practicing real hard every day on the song. It’s a musical. Have you ever heard Drake sing? Guy’s got the voice of an angel or something. Just you wait, he’s going to be a superstar someday.”

The way he says it is so…doting. There’s a clear fondness there even if his words are complete and utter nonsense. Fenton and Drake are both fully aware that the likelihood of a male duck becoming any form of an A-list celebrity is very low. Launchpad seems to live in a different world than either of them however and Fenton decides to just let him continue to do so. He just nods his agreement.

They watch cartoons together until Drake returns. He’s only wearing a pair of sweatpants, his chest and shoulders bare. Fenton blinks at him, somehow stunned by this fact. As if there is any reason Drake shouldn’t walk around his own home topless before bed. He’s much more ripped than Fenton remembers but he supposes the last time he saw him without a shirt was changing for high school gym class. Do actors need to work out that much? The guy nearly has a damn six-pack. He kisses Launchpad on the lips, just a quick peck that Launchpad tilts back his head to receive as he passes behind the couch.

Drake disappears around the corner into the kitchen. The sound of a fridge opening follows, then a scraping sound of a chair it sounds like.

“Babe, where’d you put the leftovers?” Drake’s voice calls.

“Oh, uh, they’re out here. I’ll bring them out.”

Fenton waits until Launchpad is out of sight before he moves his books onto the table and stands to follow them both into the kitchen. Drake offers him some of the leftovers, of which there seems to be a lot, and this time he does accept since it is Drake offering and not his boyfriend. Chow mein. Plenty for all of them. Drake tells him to take a seat at the table as he dumps the leftovers onto a large plate and sticks the noodles in the microwave. Then he puts on the electric tea kettle.

“Do you want some tea?” Drake asks, already pulling out a pack of something called licorice root tea according to the box. “I have some other types as well. Decaf. Chamomile could help you sleep?”

“Chamomile is fine. And I thought you were the coffee type?” Fenton asks, smiling faintly at the memories playing in his head. They used to frequent this hole in the wall café near Drake’s house, that no popular kid would have been caught dead in, to study together for their finals. Drake would down espressos like he was a sorority chick shooting back Jell-O shots.

“For my voice,” he explains to Fenton as he pulls a bottle of honey from the shelf. “This one isn’t a musical, but I still have to project my voice. Need to take care of your throat. Now, are you going to tell me why you drove out here on a Friday night?”

“Uh,” Fenton hesitates. He slips his hand in his pocket and confirms it’s still in there. A small cardboard box that had once housed a USB stick. “It’s kind of personal, can I talk to you alone?”

Drake frowns, brow furrowing. He looks at Launchpad, reaching out to take his hand. It looks like a child’s hand in Launchpad’s. And Fenton knows that Drake’s hands are larger than his own. He rubs his fingers together, subconsciously.

“We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“It’s my secret though,” Fenton says quietly. He rubs at a spot on the table in front of him, feeling self-conscious at the silence between them.

“Drake, it’s no problem,” Launchpad says, smiling the same goofy, benevolent smile he always seems to have on his face. “I’ll take my food to the bedroom and play a game. You know I want you to have your own friends.”

“But I like us having the same friends.”

“Me and Fen are friends,” Launchpad insists. “Just not super best friends yet. Just give it some time.”

Great, now Fenton gets to feel slightly guilty, as if he just kicked a giant puppy. He hadn’t realized that Launchpad had been aware of his discomfort around him with the way he’s always smiling and joking all buddy-buddy with him and trying to casually touch him. Maybe Launchpad really isn’t a bad guy, but he isn’t going to tell him something he can’t even tell his own mother.

“Just don’t pay for anymore DLC,” Drake warns him. “We still need to buy groceries.”

Fenton waits until Launchpad has gathered his own heaping plate and disappeared into the bedroom with a salute. Drake joins Fenton at the table, and they sit across from each other. It’s a small, round wooden table that only comfortably fits four people, if no more than one of those people are Launchpad-sized.

“Okay, so what’s the secrecy about?” Drake asks grimly, poking at his food as he waits for it to cool. “Did you accidentally kill somebody with one of your wacky experiment?”

“What? No,” Fenton almost feels like laughing over the absurdity of the question, but he doesn’t. His experiments are not wacky, thank you very much. He wishes this experiment had turned out wacky. “I need your help on something and you’re the only person I could trust with this secret. It’s, well, I think it’s better if I show you.”

Fenton sets down his fork and reaches down to fish the square box out of his pocket. He sets it on the table before them. Drake stares at it, cocking his head as if trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

“Are you planning to propose to that boss of yours you are always gushing about?”

“I don’t gush over- No, it’s not- It’s not a ring case, you idiot. Open it.”

Fenton nudges the box towards him and over with his longer arms to pluck up the small case. He holds it in his left hand and slowly pulls the top off with the right. There’s a moment of resistance, of air attempting to keep it suctioned into place, then it’s lifted away, and Fenton is wincing at the sight of it as if it were something deeply shameful. It is something deeply shameful. Not just the fact he removed it but the fact he needs it in the first place. It’s like showing somebody a picture of their genitalia. He squirms, feeling the same discomfort he had felt when they had covered sex ed in middle school gym class.

However, Drake seems less horrified by the sight of it. He reaches into the box and plucks it up with the tips of his thumb and middle finger, seemingly unperturbed. He turns it over to confirm it is what he thinks it is.

“I’m assuming this is your implant?” Drake asks, tilting his eyes up. His still-damp bangs partially fall over his left one.

Fenton nods. He can’t speak. His voice catches in his throat when he tries to. His cheeks burn with shame. This is Drake. This is his oldest friend. Maybe his only friend. He should be able to be open with him. If he can’t be open with him then who does that leave?

“And what do you plan to do with it?” Drake asks, now twirling the distasteful thing between the tips of his finger as if it were a toothpick. “Were you planning on selling it? If you were hoping I have some contacts in the city, I’m afraid to say I don’t know anybody trying to purchase used implants.”

“What? No, of course not,” Fenton shakes his head, horrified at the idea of it. Who would want to buy an implant from somebody off the street? “I removed it for an experiment, but everything is going bad and I need to put it back in before I do something I regret, but I can’t do it myself. I’m too scared to cut myself back open. I’m here to beg you to help me re-insert it.”

“You want to put this implant back in your arm?” Drake asks, clearly perplexed. He stops twirling it, now holding it between his index and middle finger like he’s holding a cigarette. “Why?”

“It’s new,” Fenton explains, wishing Drake would set the damn thing back in its box. “I only had it implanted for a day and I reopened the wound and removed it. I can’t use one with a different serial number, you know that.”

“No,” Drake shakes his head slowly. He finally returns the implant to the box, casually tossing the rod in as if he was flinging the remote onto the couch. Why is Drake not disturbed by seeing something so inherently private of Fenton’s? “I’m asking you why you would want any implant in your arm. I haven’t felt better in my life since I had mine removed.”

“Since you had…what?”

“Fenton.” Drake begins. He says his name as if he were about to say something, and then he takes long breath, releasing it as a contemplative sigh. “Fenton, listen. Plenty of us in St. Canard have our implants removed. It’s really common here. There are doctors all over this city that will fake your papers. I could hook you up with my and LP’s. She’s a younger lady, very discrete.”

“Both of you?” Fenton asks, his head spinning. He’s confused and it’s taking a moment for what Drake just said to process. How could any male ducks in the entire country get away without having the implant? They’d get caught during a checkup. Worse, they’d get caught because they hurt somebody. He feels sick now. He’s in the presence of an un-neutralized male duck? Two of them if he understood what Drake is saying correctly now. Launchpad could… He’s so big. He’s so damn big and he could just pick him up like that and-

“Fenton?” Drake asks, quietly. “You’re trembling. You need something to relax you. Let me pour you a glass of wine.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Fenton hisses, angrily. He speaks harshly, not thinking about what he is saying until the words are out. “I’m not letting you liquor me and chance waking up with your boyfriend on top of me. Are you trying to hurt somebody? Why would you do something like that?”

“Why did you?” Drake bites back, clearly offended. He pushes his plate away, appetite gone. “If you’re so much better than us then why did you take out your own implant?”

“Because, it was for an experiment,” Fenton argues, weakly. It’s a bad argument. Nobody experiments on themselves for the fun of it. He did it because he wanted to prove something. He did it because he wanted proof that he was an inherently good person and that hormones, natural or unnatural, do not control him. He can’t tell Drake this though, so he lies. “It wasn’t for selfish reasons.”

“And what was the experiment?” Drake prods, see right through the ruse. He slaps the table, the sound making Fenton jump in his seat. His nerves on are edge even more so than when he started the drive here. “Go ahead, tell me. What were you trying to prove?”

“I was trying to prove, to prove that male ducks are not inherently violent rapists,” Fenton insists, holding his head up, proudly. Feigning confidence he in no way feels. “And my hypothesis was wrong.”

Another long, awkward silence. Fenton attempts to keep his straight-back posture up, an act of defiance, but his entire body is trembling. Drake sees through him. He sees the way Fenton keeps swallowing and the tears threatening to spill and how violently he is shaking. He’s gentle when he reaches over to touch Fenton’s hand.

“Did you actually rape somebody?”

Fenton shakes his head, crumbling into a spineless heap over the table. His breath shakes nearly as bad as his body.

“But I feel like I want to.”

“What’s that feel like?” Drake asks softly.

“It’s horrible,” Fenton confesses. He pulls his hand from Drake’s and brings both of them up to his face, covering his eyes. He can’t stand the thought of Drake looking at him right now. He’s so damn weak. “Every time I see him, I think about touching him. I think these horrible sexual thoughts about him. Thoughts he doesn’t even know I am capable of thinking. I want to hold his body against mine and push into him and feel his heat around me. I am disgusting.”

“That doesn’t mean you want to rape somebody,” Drake says slowly. He scoots his chair closer to Fenton’s and touches his arm. “It sounds like you’re attracted to somebody and maybe you have some sexual fantasies about them. Are you sure it isn’t because you love this person you keep thinking about them?”

“Love?” Fenton asks. He laughs harshly. “How did any of that sound like love to you?”

“What do you think Launchpad and I do to each other in the bedroom?” Drake asks. It’s an obscene question but he says it casually, matter of fact. “Do you think we just lie down and calmly sleep next to each other? We love each other. A lot. We’ve discussed marriage, in fact, though neither of us feel like we’re quite ready for that, and that sort of stuff goes along with marriage. I like when he’s desperate for me and throws me around some and is rough with me. It makes me feel good that he’s so attracted to me he has trouble holding back. There’s a difference between passion and force, Fenton.”

“But, but you’re dating each other,” Fenton argues, reaching for a way to explain the difference between what they do and what he feels. There’s no blanket explanation that can be thrown at every question and what they have is very different than what he and Gyro have. “That’s different. Me and him, he doesn’t like me like that. He wouldn’t want to date me. So, me having thoughts about him like that, that’s wrong, don’t you see that? It’s like I’m mentally raping him because I don’t have his consent to think about him.”

“It’s your boss we’re talking about, right?” Drake asks. He moves so he’s stroking Fenton’s back instead of his arm. “Just to clarify the situation? That college professor?”

Fenton nods, ashamed.

“Well, I think you’re looking for things that aren’t there,” Drake says. His hand does feel nice, the gentle, steady pressure against his back. Like when his mother used to rub his back when he was a small child and had trouble sleeping sometimes. “I get it, Fenton, I do. I was the same way when LP first convinced me to have mine removed. I was so scared that I waited until my normal implantation appointment time and didn’t work up the courage to ask her if she could maybe just not put it in until the moment the thing touched my arm. It’s been four years now and I feel so good. I feel healthier and emotionally stronger and I just, okay, I like the sex. A lot. It’s really good for our relationship and the idea of having to live without it now just fucking kills me.”

“But…the urges?” Fenton prods. “Do you think the fact that you two have each other might help control those urges? If you had them removed together then you would have been able to turn to each other when those feelings started to pop up. What about a single duck like me? I don’t have somebody like that.”

“You seem to be under the impression that Launchpad had his removed at the same time I did?” Drake questions. There’s humor in his smile. “Fenton, Launchpad has never had the implant.”

“What?” Fenton asks. He must have misheard him. It’s not possible he just said what Fenton thought he had said.

“Launchpad went through normal puberty. His mother chose to take him to one of the fake doctors once he reached the right age, a lot of the drakes in his neighborhood saw the same guy. I mean, Fenton, have you seen Launchpad? We could put a saddle on him and ride him around together like a horse. That isn’t a duck that was neutered as a kid.”

There’s an oddly dreamy look in Drake’s eye, his hand stops moving against his back. Fenton is somewhat horrified when he realizes he is probably witnessing some physical sign of Drake’s lust. Is he having sexual thoughts about his boyfriend right here in front of him? His stomach clenches in repulsion.

“But the feelings are so strong.”

“Mine were too,” Drake says, snapping out of his daydream. “For the first six months. But you’re right, having a ready and willing partner helped a lot. Maybe you just need to find a partner. Even just a short-term one. I know a few guys who are single and looking.”

“I think it’s better if I just put the implant back in.”

“Don’t,” Drake cuts in before Fenton can say more. He moves his hand from behind Fenton and grabs his hand instead, pleadingly. “Don’t do it. I won’t do it for you. I know it’s your choice so here, you can have it back, box and all. But I won’t have any part in helping you maim your own body. How long has it been?”

“About a month and a half.”

“That’s nothing!” Drake insists, squeezing Fenton’s hand. “Wait it out. Please. Give it six months. If you need to talk to somebody I’m here. I’ll even drive out to see you if I can. Please, just give it a chance. Let your body settle. You won’t regret it.”

“But the fantasies,” Fenton objects. “These thoughts in my head. They’re-”

“Normal,” Drake cuts in. “They’re normal. Everybody fantasizes about that sort of stuff, sometimes. How do you think people get together in the first place? Normal people, not mutilated ones like we used to be? They find each other attractive. They find somebody they think is hot that they want to fuck, and they ask them out. It’s called nature.”

“But science fixes what nature messes up,” Fenton quotes a source he can’t quite recall at the moment. One of his textbooks, maybe.

“That’s bullshit,” Drake says, shaking his head. He stands up and walks over to the counter, grabbing an already opened bottle of wine sitting there. “Science messes up what nature got right the first time. Now I’m going to pour you a glass of wine and you’re going to drink it and you’re going to promise me to give it another week.”

“Just another week?” Fenton asks, hesitating.

“Just another week,” Drake nods. “And when that week is over it will be another week. And then another.”

“So, it’ll always be just another week?”

“Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you haven’t noticed, yes, I renamed Duckburg with a pun…Duck…Stoop…etc)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly not too happy with this chapter but I've been looking at it for a few days now and it was either post it or give up.

Fenton loathes driving through the chaotic labyrinth that others refer to as the city of St. Canard. The metropolis appears to have been purposely designed to confuse and frighten anybody lacking prior knowledge of the streets. Every other turn seems to be onto a one-way lane, none of the pedestrians obey any of the lights, and half of the roads seem to be about as wide across as a bathtub. Given this information, Fenton is simultaneously relieved and alarmed when Launchpad volunteers to drive.

The thing is, neither Launchpad nor Drake own a car. They share a motorcycle; Launchpad takes it to his workplace in the morning and Drake drives it in the evening. The bus stop outside their apartment serves well enough if needed otherwise.

Now, the motorcycle works fine for the two of them. If they’re out and about together, Drake usually drives with Launchpad holding him around the waist. It’s a close fit, considering Launchpad’s size, but not too close. Neither is in fear of slipping off the bike. However, there is no way that Launchpad, Drake, _and_ Fenton can fit on one motorcycle so when Launchpad offers to drive that means he is specifically offering to drive Fenton’s car. And Launchpad is a terrifying driver.

Now, Drake is a fine driver. Not as careful and meticulous as Fenton, but he’s fine. A few months older than Fenton, he had earned his license before him and had driven them both back and forth to school until Fenton had passed his own driving test. True, he hasn’t driven with Drake much since graduation, but he assumes his skills haven’t deteriorated in that time. The issue is that Drake never learned stick and Fenton’s car is a manual. Launchpad knows how to drive a stick.

The keys are handed over with some trepidation. Fenton’s translucent Erlenmeyer flask keychain (which also serves as a bottle opener) seems extremely small in Launchpad’s hand. He grins and promises to take care of Fenton’s “baby.” As if he’s ever referred to his car by that name in his life. It’s just a cheap used Mazda he bought from a guy on the side of the road; he just doesn’t have the money to replace it.

To his credit, Launchpad doesn’t manage to hit anything with it. Though Fenton does spend the entire drive cowering in the corner of the back seat, clutching onto anything seemingly secure with all his strength. Launchpad doesn’t so much as take turns as swing cars around corners, channeling pure momentum and sheer luck. By the time they reach the bay, Fenton’s fingers are sore and trembling from clutching at his seatbelt and the cushions and the door. He feels like kissing the solid ground when he tumbles out of the backseat. Who thought he would be happy to be back outside in one of the most dangerous cities in the country?

St. Canard has a less sinister air to it during the day than it does at night. The shadows seem less ominous, the lights less glaring. It’s still very much a city in its own right. Stoopsburg is a city too, of course, but it isn’t the type people think of when you say city. It’s green, sprawling, and a municipal code prohibits any new buildings over five floors in height from being built. St. Canard is a city in more of the classical sense. Everything seems tightly packed, public transportation runs king, and even looking up to the skyline gives Fenton a sense of vertigo at the height of the skyscrapers. St. Canard is a duck-city which tarnishes its reputation in some regards, but for some it is a city of opportunity. Cheap real estate and low regulatory standards prove fruitful to the right investors.

In comparison, Stoopsburg is a middle-class city of old families built on generations of wealth and stability. However, not many ducks choose to move to Stoopsburg. If anything, the duck population has been decreasing over the last few decades as many of those born there, like Drake, have chosen to flee the confines of the city walls in search of greener pastures. Fenton’s mother had spoken of it sadly throughout his own childhood, lamenting on how difficult it was for him to make friends.

“When I was your age there was a group of six of us girls in my grade,” she would say, bringing out the family album to show him the blurry photographs of the six ducklings with varying styles of old-fashioned haircuts and very outdated clothing. “But by high school, there were only four of us and now it’s just your Aunt Shelda and her family left. Everyone else moved away”

Aunt Shelda, of course, isn’t Fenton’s real aunt, though he was always instructed to refer to her as such. Unlike Fenton’s own mother, who had waited until she finished her education and secured a steady job and house for herself, Aunt Shelda had chosen to have her children right out of school. She’d found a nice older parrot, Uncle Joff, who had been wanting to start a family as soon as possible since he was getting up there in years. Both of their kids have a good decade on Fenton, so he was never able to play with them when he was young.

Beside Shelda’s family and Drake’s family, Fenton hasn’t had much on-going interaction with other ducks outside his own immediate gene pool. He’s been in class with some and run into them in stores and the like, but that’s not the same thing as a years-long relationship. Maybe that’s why being surrounded by his brethren in St. Canard is always so jarring. You walk by the bus stop, and there is a duck sitting there on the bench waiting. You drive past the other cars on the street, and there they all are, behind the wheels. You start walking along the harbor, and they’re all right there, surrounding you on all sides, talking loudly, brushing against you.

It’s always unnerved him, every time he visits St. Canard, but now Fenton has a new thought in his head. Every time a drake passes, he stares at him and wonders to himself “Did he remove his?”

The other two don’t even bat an eye at the crowds. They’re holding hands, talking about things that seem much too mundane for this situation. How well Drake’s performance was last night. Did you remember to unplug the teapot when we left? How fortunate we are to have a clear morning. The waves sure are choppy today. Look at the little crabs scrabbling along on those rocks down by the water. Fenton, are you cold? Here, take my jacket. No, don’t worry, I’m not cold. Launchpad, give me your coat.

It is a little chilly out. Early autumn still, but here on the water the breeze can be biting even in the summer. Drake’s black wool jacket is big on Fenton; it hangs to his fingertips and even wrapping it as tightly as he can around himself it is still loose around the chest. It’s warm from Drake’s body and smells nice, comforting. Fenton’s bangs keep blowing into his eyes and he has to continuously wipe them away with the sleeve of Drake’s jacket. The other two are wearing beanies. When they pass a small wooden stand selling the knitted hats for only ten bucks, Drake stops to buy him one without asking.

“You always did look good in powder blue,” Drake says, pulling it down over his head, ignoring his protests. He pushes it back, exposing some of his forehead, and messes with Fenton’s feathers so his bangs peek out one side. “Adorable.”

Their destination is at the very end of the harbor. When they arrive, Launchpad requests the open seat by the firepit outside. It’s ceramic and gas with little sparkling glass crystals on the bottom that seem to be glowing blue and purple in the flames.

“Launchpad always feels cramped inside,” Drake apologizes when they’re led to the hearth. “The chairs are so close together and the overhead lights hang so low.”

Fenton doesn’t mind sitting outside, even if it is a little chilly. It gives him a reason to keep his new hat on besides the presence of hat-hair. It’s quieter outside and he felt uneasy at the idea of being crowded together near so many ducks. Not everyone that they’ve come across has been one, but he’d have to guess at least a good seventy percent of them are, including children and the elderly. Launchpad goes out of his way to move two of the heavy armchairs closer to the fire so that Fenton and Drake can keep warm. Drake gives Launchpad his coat back but doesn’t ask for his own. Fenton doesn’t offer it up.

“So, no show today?” Fenton asks as they wait for their waiter to make an appearance.

“The venue is rented out for concerts on the weekend,” Drake explains, extending his hands out to the fire to warm them. He rubs them together for effect. Always the performer, he probably uses the same gesture in his plays. Fenton can imagine him playing Bob Cratchit, warming his hands over a single piece of barely glowing coal. “Besides, I need a couple of days off, it’s a job like any other. Where is that damn waiter, I want my bloody mary.”

“They seem pretty packed,” Fenton says, thinking of the crowded restaurant they had been lead through to reach the back door and the outdoor patio beyond. He looks over the menu the hostess had handed over when seating them. The prices aren’t over-the-top but they’re more extravagant than he’s used to paying for a meal. He peruses, searching for the cheapest thing on the menu.

“Get the pork belly burrito,” Drake says, reaching over to pluck the menu from his hands before he finishes reading it. “And the unlimited bloody marys, unless you’re more of a mimosa kind of guy?”

“The burrito is eighteen dollars,” Fenton protests, trying to grab the menu back. Drake uses his height advantage to hold it above his head. “And the unlimited drinks are an extra fifteen.”

“Don’t worry about the price,” Launchpad speaks up, taking the menu that is Drake is now holding out to him. “I’ve got the bill.”

“But-”

“Consider it a celebratory meal,” Drake interrupts him. He turns away from the fire and faces his partner. “We’re celebrating your entrance into manhood. LP, what are you drinking?”

“Oh, uh,” he flips open Fenton’s stolen menu, ignoring his own lying discarded on the loveseat beside him. “The milk stout by Rookery, I think.”

They all order the burrito. Or rather, when the waitress asks what they’d like Drake responds, “Three pork belly burritos, extra guac.” It’s the house special and Drake claims nobody comes here to order anything else. Fenton orders the bloody mary deal as well, asking if the waiter can bring him a bottle of tabasco sauce on the side. It’s nice knowing he doesn’t have to drive later. He’s glad Launchpad only orders one drink; would one beer even affect a guy that size?

“I know him,” Launchpad says once the waiter has collected their menus and disappeared back inside. “We went to high school together. Babe, I think you met him at that Halloween party at Phil’s a few years back. He was dressed up as Dr. Frank-N-Furter.”

“No, he was dressed up as Columbia,” Drake corrects smoothly. “And the prick hit on me and tried to grab my ass even after I told him we were together. I think you were in the bathroom. I didn’t say anything at the time because I didn’t want you cold-cocking him.”

“Well, there’s still time,” Launchpad replies, but there’s only humor in his voice. Nothing dangerous, nothing feral. If anything, he sounds just a bit proud over the idea of it. Of somebody else finding his boyfriend attractive, Fenton thinks. Come to think of it, he always sounds proud when he’s talking about Drake.

The guy’s an anomaly. How can somebody be so completely unaltered and so completely benevolent? If anything, isn’t Drake’s boyfriend a better indicator of his theories on drake violence than Fenton could ever be? He is a pure, intact example of a harmless biological male.

Fenton has never known an adult drake without a current implant and he definitely has never knowingly been around somebody who has never had one at all. Except now he has. He’s not sure how he missed it earlier. Of course, Launchpad went through puberty as nature intended. No castrated male could possess his height and muscles, not while on the hormones. He had always assumed, foolishly, that Launchpad was just one of those ultra-virile guys that were naturally so hyper-masculine that the hormones did not affect them in the same way it did others. If anything, that idea gave him more reason to be wary of Launchpad. It meant that without the hormones he would have been one of the most dangerous and violent of their species. Except now it doesn’t. Launchpad may have been as small as Drake, possibly as small as Fenton himself, if his mother had followed the law. His size isn’t an indicator of him being an outlier, it’s just a product of his upbringing.

On the other hand, Fenton might have been as large and powerful as Launchpad without the implant. He can’t even imagine such a thing. Even the idea of being taller than his own mother is a strange one. He can’t say for sure how big he might have been. He doesn’t know how large drakes in his family can grow without the hormones. All the men on his mother’s side have the implant and he doesn’t even know his father’s side – an anonymous donor from a drake who had donated his remaining sperm to the facility. All he knows about him is he had been Latino, assuming they had honored his mother’s request.

“Wait,” Fenton says, suddenly snapping out of his thoughts. “He grabbed your ass? Like, he was sexually interested in you? So, he’s…”

“I told you it was common here,” Drake reminds him quietly. He glances around the empty patio, making sure they’re still alone. “Please don’t panic again like last night. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

How can they protect him from them when they’re one of them, Fenton can’t help but think to himself.

But he’s also one of them, for now. He promised he wouldn’t try to reinsert the implant on his own and he wouldn’t do it without talking to Drake beforehand, but he has no plan on staying like them. He doesn’t want to be this disgusting meat sack of need and want his entire life. He’s a fully functioning body controlled by a brain, not a sex organ on legs.

Fenton wonders if the police would do anything about it if they knew. Launchpad seems like a, well, sitting duck. If the police are aware of the epidemic of un-neutered males then wouldn’t Launchpad be an obvious suspect? Unless they’re part of the problem too.

The drinks arrive, suspiciously delivered by a different waiter. Fenton tastes his cocktail, finds it too bland as he finds almost all restaurant bloody marys too bland, and shakes a generous amount of tabasco into it. Launchpad asks him if he wants the piece of celery sticking out of the narrow glass and Fenton hands it to him. Then he politely asked Launchpad how his beer is.

“Served too cold for a milk stout,” he replies, holding it up to look through the tulip glass. It appears black but when Fenton looks at it with the light hitting it, it comes off more of a dark brown. “A milk stout really should be served at about fifty degrees, maybe even a couple degrees higher, but these places always treat stouts like they’re some crappy mass-produced lager. Consistency is good, one of the creamier ones I’ve had in a while. I favor a heavier level of malt, personally, this is a bit sweet for my taste, but I assume they’re targeting this one to a certain type of beer drinker. Would you like to try a sip?”

Fenton stares at Launchpad, dumbfounded. He has no idea what the guy is talking about. Malt? Like one of those milkshakes at that old-timey drugstore his mother used to take him to as a kid?

“I, uh, see you’re a fan of beer,” he manages finally, stirring his own drink with the straw.

Beside him, Drake snorts. Launchpad just smiles, not unkindly but he looks like he’s trying not to laugh as well.

“I’m assuming you forgot that Launchpad is the head brewer at Audubon Bay Brewery?” Drake asks.

Forget? How do you forget something you never learned? Since when did Drake’s boyfriend work at a damn brewery? Fenton hadn’t even been aware the guy liked beer, even though he seems like the type who would.

“I…thought he worked as a mechanic?” Fenton asks, his face going red. He’s still stirring the bloody mary in his hands though the hot sauce is well-blended by now.

“Seriously?” Drake laughs, lifting his hand to laugh into it. “A mechanic? You just take one look at him and assume that?”

“Babe, stop teasing the guy,” Launchpad admonishes, reaching across the distance between them to shove lightly at Drake’s shoulder. Drake barely moves. “I was working at the garage when we first met, Fen, to pay my way through the brewing program at St. Canard College. I got hired on at Audubon about three years back.”

“Oh, come on, LP,” Drake insists, “I know I told him when you graduated, and I swore I told him about when you were promoted to Brewmaster. For a doctorate student, your memory really sucks.”

Fenton’s face is hot. He looks down at his cocktail, wondering if he’s as red as the drink. He brings the drink to his mouth and sips at it.

“You probably got me during finals,” he mumbles after swallowing. His eyes are stinging. He blames it internally on the hormones because why should he be tearing up over something this stupid? But he also just really hates feeling humiliated. Maybe he’s just finally breaking. After all these weeks of worry and school and having Gyro, mean, rude, brilliant, beautiful Gyro, yelling at him constantly.

“Drake,” Launchpad’s voice is strange now. Strict sounding. Fenton has never heard him speak like that. He always sounds so laid back and friendly but there is none of that in the way he is speaking. “Let it go, you’re upsetting him.”

“Sorry, Fenton,” Drake says quietly. He scoots to the edge of his chair and leans over to grab Fenton’s hand, the one not holding his drink, between both of his. “I was just joking. If you asked me to name what your doctorate is in, I wouldn’t know either. I just thought it was funny, but I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s okay,” he gets out. But the wetness in his right eye spills over and he tries to pretend the wetness on his face isn’t there. He flinches when a hand touches his cheek, wiping it away. Drake is still holding his hand between his own.

“I think you coming here this weekend was the best thing you could have done,” Launchpad says, speaking directly above Fenton’s head. He’s crouched down, knees bent; he wouldn’t have been able to touch Fenton’s face if he had been standing up straight. “You definitely needed a vacation.”

* * *

It had never been Fenton’s plan to stay the full weekend. Originally, he had planned on leaving sometime before noon on Saturday. Of course, the original plan had also included having his arm cut open in a form of makeshift home-surgery.

Then things had changed. Drake could see how worried Fenton was, how scared he was to be alone with his thoughts and urges, and he had proposed that they spend the entire weekend showing him a good time.

“I know, I know,” Drake had conceded, holding up his hands at the obvious ploy. “You don’t want to move here. You’ve said it a thousand times. I’m just saying, maybe you’ll start to feel differently in a few weeks. Come on, let me have a fun weekend with my friend.”

Activity one was brunch. Drake said everything was more fun with alcohol in your blood. Somehow, they managed to eat and drink for three hours, enjoying themselves until the restaurant closed at two to prep for the dinner crowd. They ordered the make-your-own-s’mores dessert and cooked them over the fire pit. After, they walked around the harbor for another two hours, the larger two pointing out the various sites, including the lighthouse that Launchpad claimed used to be a hideout for gangsters. They shopped at the various booths of homemade products and Fenton came out with a new black and blue jacket that Launchpad called a poncho hoodie, a pair of Audubon Bay “official” socks, and a dancing crab for his car’s dashboard. He only paid for the crab out of his own pocket.

Activity two was Goony Golf, a miniature golf park with an attached arcade where Launchpad wasted fifteen dollars trying to win Drake a stuffed lobster from a grab machine. Once he had it in his arms, Drake christened it Lobstpad. They took turns doing sports commentary throughout their mini golf set. Launchpad apparently has a Woodchuck Scout badge in the activity; Fenton didn’t even realize that such a thing existed. He won the game and Drake was “escorted” out after losing his temper and attacking a bush with his club. Fenton remembered to grab Lobstpad from where Drake had left it on a bench as they chased after him.

Activity three was a movie at the Watson theater because they were all tired out from booze and golf and fresh air. Launchpad fell asleep halfway through the movie, his head thrown over the back of the seat, snoring. Fenton and Drake made stupid jokes throughout the rest of the God-awful B horror movie they had shelled out money to see. Drake voiced the girls and Fenton the guys. The theater had mostly been empty except for a few teenagers in the back and they weren’t there to actually watch the movie.

Activity four was dinner at the Hamburger Hippo. Not exactly the best place to show off local color. Fenton pointed out that Stoopsburg has several Hamburger Hippos of its own and Drake responded by steering him to the small plaque out front that proclaimed the location of the restaurant as being that of the original Hammy’s Hippo that opened in 1955. Though apparently, the building had burned down in 1963. Launchpad claimed he had a relative who had worked there before it went aflame but he couldn’t name how they were related to him. The waitress gave Fenton a special pin for his first visit to the historic landmark and Launchpad pinned it to his poncho hoodie as if he was a small child.

Activity five was going back to their apartment. That wasn’t supposed to be the activity itself. They were supposed to go back, take turns showering, and then get dressed up for a night out on the city because Drake felt he needed to show Fenton “all those beautiful, glistening fish in the sea that will make you forget about your grizzled old rooster,” but by then Fenton was exhausted and felt as rung out as a kitchen towel after walking around the city all day. Somehow, he felt more exhausted from slowly meandering all day than he has from his new workout routine.

“Fenton, come on,” Drake says, his hands on his hips staring down at the smaller duck who is sprawled out across the couch. “Don’t you want to meet somebody? You could get lucky tonight.”

“I don’t want to get lucky tonight,” Fenton's voice is muffled, a white faux-fur throw pillow pressed against his face. “I’m tired. I want to veg out in front of the TV.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Launchpad says from the opposite side of the couch. But then Drake is glaring at him and he rubs at the back of his head, coughing loudly and fakely. “Uh, I’m just going to jump in the shower if nobody minds me going first? Yeah. Okay.”

Drake plops down onto the couch beside Fenton’s head and yanks the pillow out of his hands. Fenton glares up at him, tilting his head back to meet his friend’s eyes.

“Fenton, listen,” Drake says, sighing. He runs his fingers fondly through the tousled soft-brown feathers on his head. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve never dated anybody and now that’s an even scarier prospect. But this will help you. Hell, I’m not even asking you to actually date somebody. Just get out there and see what happens. We’ll have some drinks, hit the dancefloor, and if another guy happens to be into you, well, you don’t have to give him your real name. You don’t even have to go home with home. Just hook up in the bathroom if you need to. Just work it out of your system and you’ll go home tomorrow feeling a lot better.”

“Have you ever done anything like that?” Fenton challenges, still glaring. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge Drake’s hand from his head but his attempt is ineffective.

“Well, no,” Drake admits, sheepishly. He moves his fingers to stroke at the soft, shorter feathers at Fenton’s temples. “But-”

“You removed yours so you could have a physical relationship with your boyfriend,” Fenton reminds him, pressing himself to sound uncompromising on the topic. He is uncompromising but he often has difficulty coming across forceful with, well, anybody. “You never had to go out there looking for somebody to have sex with just so you don’t end up forcing yourself on someone. Our situations are entirely different. What if I did find somebody who I thought was attractive tonight? What if they didn’t think the same of me? What if I did something I regret? What if I hurt them? My M’ma would be heartbroken if I ended up in jail.”

“Fenton,” Drake shakes his head, attempting to reason with him. His fingers are admittedly soothing against Fenton’s face. “We’re going to a specialty drake club. Everybody there is like us. It’s safer that way, they vet people. You can’t get in without a referral from an existing club member. And not to sound condescending here, but I don’t think you have to worry about hurting somebody. You’re not a very big guy.”

“Great, so you’re saying I should be more worried about one of them taking advantage of me?” Fenton demands to know, snorting. “Give me back my pillow.”

Giving up, Drake hands him his pillow. He presses it back into his face. They both stay there, silent for a while, Drake still stroking the exposed feathers on Fenton’s head, until Fenton hears Launchpad in the entrance of the living room.

“So, uh, the sweatpants or the leather ones?”

“The sweatpants.”

* * *

Overall, the night goes better once they agree they’re spending it inside. Launchpad bakes peanut butter cookies, for some reason, and serves them up with something he refers to as a “double chocolate imperial stout.” It’s poured from a large, brown glass container that Drake calls a growler and the two tastes together are reminiscent of peanut butter cups made with dark chocolate.

“We call it Trick-or-Treat Surprise,” Launchpad explains, proudly. “You’re one of the first to try it, we’re not debuting it until next week. I created it specifically to appeal to those new to heavier beers. I’m hoping it’ll be a hit with the Halloween crowd.”

“It’s good, I think,” Fenton says. He doesn’t know enough about beer to know what “good” is but Launchpad beams at him anyway.

They end up watching anime, of all things, because Drake says there is one that he’s seen that Fenton would be into. They haven’t watched anime together since they were sixteen; Fenton wasn’t even sure of Drake still watched the stuff. One of the characters starts complaining about spicy curry in the second episode and Drake and Fenton both mock Launchpad when he commiserates with the character.

“Man, I can’t do spice either,” he says, sticking his tongue out. Thing’s the size of a slice of deli ham.

Somehow, this leads to Drake declaring the need for a hot sauce tasting in the kitchen with saltine crackers and French vanilla ice cream. Drake has about a dozen different bottles of the stuff and he lines them up in what he believes is mildest to hottest. The bottles vary in size and color but they’re all glass and they all have a lot of red text on them.

Launchpad gives up after the first four, complaining his tongue is going numb already. Fenton says he can barely even taste the spice, which is only a bit of a lie. Drake’s sniffles some as his nose begins to run. The dropout eats ice cream straight from the container with a spoon as the other two continue.

Drake bails on the tenth bottle, leaving the last two for Fenton alone. The runner up joins Launchpad with a second spoon and is still blotting sweat off his face with a kitchen towel as the remaining contestant continues on. Fenton drinks a full glass of milk after the eleventh, needing a minute to breathe, but declares he’s not finished yet. The final bottle has Ghost Peppers and mace listed on the ingredients label and Drake warns him to only use one or two droplets of the stuff.

“I’m serious,” he says, grabbing onto Fenton’s wrist as he’s about to unload half the bottle. “If you use more than that you’re going to be in the bathroom dying for the rest of the night. Then how would we get up early for the aquarium?”

In defiance, Fenton shakes out three droplets onto his last cracker and stuffs it all in. Within ten seconds, he’s grabbing the half-gallon of vanilla ice cream from Launchpad’s hands and shoveling the stuff into his burning mouth. One problem becomes two: his mouth is still burning and now he also has a brain freeze. He grabs at his temples, moaning in pain, demanding to know how a mouth can be both freezing and on fire at the same time? They’re both laughing at him, Drake hanging onto Launchpad’s arm for support, and Fenton laughs despite himself, the sound contagious, making a mess of the ice cream and his shirt. He excuses himself to go into the bathroom to wash off the mess and change into his pajama top.

At least he won the contest. Too bad it wasn’t supposed to be a contest to begin with, they were just supposed to be deciding which they thought was the best tasting of Drake’s collection. When he returns, he and Drake both end up agreeing on one of the less spicy ones with Sichuan peppers, Launchpad sticks with his Frank’s Red Hot.

“That’s the only hot sauce he’ll eat,” Drake says, pointing at Launchpad with his thumb. He rolls his eyes but there’s clear adoration in them. “He even puts it in his ramen.”

None of them express interest in continuing with the anime. The concentration needed to follow the obviously convoluted plot isn’t conducive to the mood in the apartment. Futurama reruns replace the anime on the large television. They talk throughout the entirety of each episode, sometimes about old times, sometimes about new things, missing large chunks of the show. It doesn’t matter, it mostly serves as background noise.

Fenton is alone on the couch, holding the furry pillow against his chest, feeling ridiculously like a schoolgirl at her first sleepover. That wasn’t something he and Drake experienced together in their youth. Launchpad and Drake share an oversized armchair and Fenton tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how Launchpad is continuously stroking Drake’s leg. Not in a lewd way, exactly. He’s just running his thumb along the calf, but it comes off as so extremely intimate. The talk dies off after the second episode. Fenton didn’t sleep well last night, and it is catching up with him. Barely past nine and he’s already dozing in and out during the third episode and out cold by the fourth.

When he awakens, the television screen is dark, and the lights are off. The aquarium glows blue. The other two are missing.

“Must have gone to bed,” he murmurs to himself. One of them threw the same blanket he had slept with last night over his curled-up body. He wonders if one of them tucked it around him like this or if he did it himself in his sleep. He grabs the pillow left on the floor beside him and turns to go back to sleep, snuggling into the back of the couch. He desperately needs a good night of sleep.

Within five minutes he’s back up and trudging towards the bathroom. The toilet is calling his name. Who can sleep with a full bladder?

It’s when he leaves the bathroom that he hears it. Just on the other side of the door at the end of the hallway, only half a dozen steps from where he is standing, a small squeaking noise. The sound of a mattress squeaking. Not an abnormal sound, really, Fenton’s own squeaks when he climbs into it. But not like this. Not in this repetitive, almost predictive manner. He stops in his tracks, frozen in place, wondering to himself if he’s really hearing what he thinks he’s hearing.

Part of him says no, of course not, they wouldn’t do that when they have somebody in their house.

The other part of him says of course they would. People do that sort of thing all the time. Parents do it with their kids in the house. It just seems strange to him because he’s never lived with somebody who did stuff like that. His mother never even attempted to date when he was young. Not that he knows of, at least. She did sometimes go out for dinner with “friends.”

He tells himself, very rationally, that he needs to go back to the couch, put in his earbuds, and go back to sleep to the sound of something soothing like ambient forest sounds. He just needs to block out the squeaking of the bed on the other side of that door and pretend nothing is happening outside of the usual.

He walks to the door and presses his ear against it, listening. Trying to figure out exactly what they’re doing in there. He has an idea, of course, but that’s not enough. He wants to know if they’re actually having intercourse. Is there anything else that would make the bed squeak like that? He knows there are other things people do in bed together. Things with their mouths, things with their hands. Would using your hand make the bed squeak? Fenton doesn’t think it would, not unless you were being very rough.

Somebody is making noises of some sort. It’s hard to tell what they would be described as. Gasps, maybe? Heavy breaths? He thinks it’s Drake. How can you even tell somebody’s voice by how they breathe? But he’s pretty sure it’s Drake. It sounds like he’s in pain, but Fenton knows he isn’t. 

Fenton dick is hard. He’s so disgusted with himself he feels like vomiting. Until only a few weeks ago he didn’t even know what sexual arousal felt like and now he can’t go two days without jerking off. The two of them put so much work into distracting him and it had worked. For an entire day he has managed to not think about sex, to not think about the stuff he would like to do with his mentor, but now that’s all shattered. He’s imagining what they’re doing in there and he can’t help but wonder how it would feel to do those things with Gyro.

Would Gyro _want_ to do those things with him?

He would have to tell his boss what he did if he were to ever attempt anything with him. Is that something he could legitimately do? Should he even think of doing such a thing? Would Gyro be scared of him if he knew what Fenton did? Would he replace the implant himself? Or would he call the police on him? Maybe he would call Fenton stupid, in a cruel way.

Maybe he would call Fenton stupid, in an affectionate way.

They’re still going at it and he’s still standing here, listening to them. He’s as bad as one of those peeping toms that watch women undress in front of their windows. He shouldn’t be aroused listening to his friend and his boyfriend having sex.

If he were to maybe open the door just a slit, would they see him? He’s never seen two people having sex. Not really. The soft, shrouded stuff in movies, sure, but he’s managed to avoid running into real porn. It isn’t something he had any interest in seeing before and the last few weeks he’s been too scared to look at it, scared of what it might do to his mind. What if it helped accelerate his journey into a mindless rapist?

But he wants to see them. He wants to see what it looks like when two guys have sex. He knows the mechanics but that’s not the same as seeing it. But opening the door is a ridiculous idea. They’d hear it or see it and he shouldn’t be doing something like that anyway. Accidentally hearing them is one thing, but outright spying on them is a total violation of privacy.

His erection aches. He doesn’t like looking down and finding it there waiting for him, exposed to the open air, deep red in color. An angry red. Such a contrast to the warm color of his feathers. Pre-ejaculate is leaking from the head. Paranoid he’ll drip on the floor, he reaches down and tries to press it back in between his legs. He knows he won’t be able to tuck it back inside, not when it’s this big, but he’d like to at least try to push it down. The thought of slipping back into the bathroom to get rid of it makes him feel dirty.

Dirtier than standing outside his friend’s bedroom door, listening to him get laid? His effort to tuck it away fails but now there’s pre-cum on his hand. He attempts to wipe it off on his hip and his elbow knocks, loudly, against the door. It sends a jolt of pain up his arm and he curses, grabbing at the arm joint.

Oh crap. They’re whispering inside the room now and the squeaking has stopped. Should he hurry into the bathroom, lock the door behind him? What if they need to pee afterward? Isn’t that a thing? You need to pee after, so you don’t get an infection? Maybe he should just go back to the couch instead. But what if he leaks on the couch? What if he stains it with the pre-cum he just wiped on his feathers? What if-

The door opens. Drake is standing there in a bathrobe, head cocked.

“Uh.”

“Were you looking for the bathroom?” Drake asks. Fenton almost sighs with relief. Yes, he can totally use that as an excuse. He was looking for the bathroom and just tried to open the wrong door and-

The door to the bathroom is still wide open just a few feet to the side, lights on, the sink clearly visible from this spot. Drake looks at it then looks at Fenton again. Then he notices _it_.

“Oh,” he breathes, his face turning nearly as red as Fenton’s dick. “You, uh. Yeah. I’m sorry, we were probably being too loud. We must have woken you up.”

“No!” Fenton says quickly. “I, I just had to pee is all.”

“Understandable,” Drake replies, but Fenton isn’t fooling anybody. They stand there for a moment, pretending Fenton isn’t standing there with his hard cock out for both of them to see. Fenton wants to turn around and walk away, past the bathroom door, maybe even past the couch and out the front door. Maybe into oncoming traffic.

He’s frozen in place.

“I, uh,” he starts. But he can’t think of anything to say.

“I told you to come to me if you needed to talk about it,” Drake reminds him. He moves his arm forward as if he’s about to touch Fenton’s arm but second-guesses himself. Probably because of Fenton’s current state of arousal. Maybe he’s afraid any touch would only worsen the situation. “Are you having those urges?”

“Yes,” Fenton replies. Then he corrects himself. “Maybe. Not, not violent ones. But something.”

Drake nods. Then he takes a very deep breath, letting it out in one quick puff of air.

“Alright, let’s deal with his,” he says. Lightning fast, his arm shoots forward and he grabs onto Fenton’s wrist. Before Fenton realizes what is happening, he is being pulled into the bedroom. On the bed, completely naked, Launchpad looks about as shocked as Fenton feels. He hurries to cover his lap with a pillow.

“What are you doing?” Fenton cries out, struggling against Drake’s grip on his wrist.

“You wouldn’t go out and hook up with some stranger so that leaves us no choice,” Drake says. He shoves Fenton back with a one-handed shove to the chest. He stumbles and falls onto the bed, catching himself with his elbows against the mattress. He’s still hard and in this position, it looks even more obscene, standing in the air. He sits up, pulling his legs to his chest quickly.

“Drake,” Launchpad cuts in. Fenton feels something against his back. The larger duck is trying to put a blanket over him. “We talked about this and agreed it was a bad idea.”

“No,” Drake denies. He’s removing his robe. Fenton gapes at the sight of the first erection he’s ever seen in real life besides his own. “We agreed it would be better for him to meet someone instead of handling it ourselves, but that plan fell through, didn’t it?”

They’re going to rape him, Fenton realizes, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He was right this whole time. Science has been right this whole time. He’s a voyeur and they’re rapists. That’s all they ever were, a bunch of disgusting perverts.

“Please,” Fenton begs, already beginning to cry. “Drake, you’re my friend, don’t do this. You don’t need to do this.”

Drake looks at him, blinking. His mouth opens for a moment like he’s about to speak. He closes it.

He steps forward, close enough to reach him, and gets down onto his knees. He’s looking up at Fenton now, his hands go up to touch where Fenton’s fingers are entwined, holding his legs to his chest.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do,” Drake promises, his voice sounding small. “Neither of us will. I promise that wasn’t what we were talking about. Last night, LP and I, we had a discussion about asking you to join us in bed. We thought maybe it would be easier for you to get through this if you could work out your frustration with somebody you already knew. But LP was afraid you’d feel obligated to say yes if we asked so we decided against it. But you were so set on not going out tonight…”

“I’m sorry,” Fenton sniffs. He rubs at his face with his hand. He keeps the other one wrapped around his legs. “I don’t want to find anybody else. I think, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Gyro.”

Drake nods, frowning slightly.

“I assumed as much, yes. So, I understand why you wouldn’t be interested in…experimenting with us.”

“But I am,” Fenton says. Drake cocks his head in surprise, looking at him, studying him. “At least…you anyway. I don’t know if I’d be comfortable with Launchpad touching me. Um, no offense.”

“None taken,” Launchpad’s voice comes from the bed behind him.

“And what about your grumpy rooster love?” Drake inquires.

“I can’t have him,” Fenton says, the words coming out thick. “I can’t ever tell him about what I did. He thinks we’re all inherently violent without the implant. I, I guess I could put it back in and then confess how I feel, but what rooster would want to live a sexless life?”

“What duck would?” Drake counters. “Are you sure you want to do this? Losing your virginity is a big step. I’d, um, I’d probably top. To make things more simple.”

Right. Fenton hasn’t even thought that far ahead. In his fantasies he always thinks of being inside of Gyro but there are other ways that could go. The idea of relinquishing control, of allowing somebody to take over, is comforting. He doesn’t have to worry about hurting somebody if they’re the ones behind the wheel.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Fenton says. He slides his feet onto the floor, exposing himself. Despite everything, he’s still hard. Drake is less so. Drake isn’t dealing with the hormonal balances Fenton is.

“If you want me to stop just say so,” Drake says. Then he glances at Launchpad in bed. “And, um. Launchpad is going to watch. He’s my partner, I can’t not have him here. But I’ll be the one doing everything, okay?”

Fenton nods. He had assumed as such. He’s more comfortable with the large duck than he used to be. The idea of somebody watching the entire time makes him somewhat self-conscious but it’s a courtesy he should be afforded considering Fenton is about to screw his boyfriend.

Drake stands up to kiss him. He’s already taller than Fenton, but with Fenton sitting on the bed the difference in their size is accentuated. Fenton tilts his head up to meet him halfway. It’s his first kiss; he’s grateful for how gentle his friend is being with him. Drake holds his head between his hands, guiding him. It’s surprisingly sweet.

The kiss stays chaste until Fenton decides he’s ready for more. He’s the one who deepens it. Working up the courage to take the plunge, he grabs at Drake’s bicep and tugs at him, indicating what he wants. The taller duck follows him down onto the bed, crushing him against the mattress with his broad chest, but they’re both only half on the bed so Drake rolls them, making sure to end up on top. He’s a heavy weight above him and Fenton feels like he should be scared but he’s still kissing him. He’s hard again by now, pressing himself against Fenton’s leg like a dog in heat. Fenton reaches down, fumbling for it. Taking this as encouragement, Drake does the same and Fenton can’t help the moan that escapes his mouth.

He’s never felt like this before. Not in just the physical sense, not just in the way that somebody who has never been kissed or touched in a physical way feels, but mentally. This is different than the fantasies. Somehow, he knows he wants this, he wants to feel Drake inside him, and he can’t even explain why. He’s never attempted such a thing, not even with just a finger, so why does he know that he wants it? Why does he know that he wants to be fucked? How can he crave something his body has never felt?

It’s not like he’s even in love with Drake. It’s not like he wants this because he wants to be one with him or some sappy nonsense. He loves him the way anybody can love an old friend, he’s probably his only real friend, but it’s not the same as the way he feels about Gyro. But he still wants this. Maybe it is just the raging hormones making him like this. Stripping him of his ability to pick and choose his own partner at will, transforming him into an open receptacle for pleasure. Except he knows that’s not true. He still possesses the ability to want and not want to be touched. When he feels the large hand on his waist he flinches, knowing it isn’t Drake’s.

“Easy,” Launchpad’s voice deep attempts to soothe him. The fingers stroke him gently as if he were a kitten. Not sexually. He’s keeping his promise and he isn’t trying to join them. “Just helping you out.”

Helping him out apparently means pushing a pillow under his waist to adjust the angle of his hips. Is that something he does with Drake, he wonders? Does it make the experience more comfortable or just easier for whoever is doing the fucking? It does make it easier for Fenton to wrap his legs around Drake’s waist. Had this same pillow been under Drake’s hips ten minutes ago? It’s hard to imagine Drake ever as exposed and wide open as Fenton feels right now.

“I’ve only done this a few times,” Drake admits with a little laugh when they pull apart to breathe. He leans forward to take something from Launchpad’s hand. A little tube appears, about the size of a toothpaste container. He screws the cap off. “Top, I mean. It can be hard to…reach, in certain positions, due to our size difference. So just, let me know if I hurt you, okay?”

“Will it hurt?” Fenton asks, alarmed at the idea of it. He’s so aroused he swears there is electricity crackling off his skin. Everything Drake has done so far has felt so good. Including when he reaches his fingers between Fenton’s legs and slips a slick finger inside him. His fingers are long and slim and don’t call for more stretching to accommodate one in Fenton’s body. He thrusts one in and out of Fenton, spreading the lubricant inside him.

“I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t,” Drake says, apologetically. He pulls the finger out and then coats two fingers, his middle and index, with more lubricant. He’s more generous with the amount than he was the first time. Then he closes the cap and sets the lubricant on the bed about a foot away. “LP has a lot more practice doing it right than I do but he’s so big…”

“No,” Fenton shakes his head. He watches Drake’s hand reach back down. Despite knowing better, he finds he’s clenching with anticipation. “I want it to be you.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Drake coos. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No this isn't gonna turn into a Drake/Launchpad/Fenton fic, just if you were worried it was heading that way.


	6. Chapter 6

If he is aware that he is being watched, he shows no signs of it. His thumbs are dancing, and the white glow of the small screen reflects back in his large, dark pupils. He’s smiling, a goofy, dumb smile, and there is a flush across his stupid cheeks that Gyro just wants to slap off his stupid face. And once more, as Gyro stares at the young man across the table, he considers the probability that his intern is dating this new guy. This pretty boy idiot who probably doesn’t know the difference between a neuron and a neutron and first showed up to disrupt his life only three weeks ago. Three weeks that feels more like three months.

What could somebody as intelligent and talented as Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera possibly find appealing in somebody like that? Yes, the maybe-boyfriend is conventionally attractive, technically speaking. But does that sort of thing even matter to drakes? Gyro is sure that they are drawn to healthy, hygienic life mates as anybody is, but is something as inconsequential as bulging pectoral muscles really capable of clouding a drake's judgment? Doubtful. That is a sexual preference. Male ducks don’t have to worry about that sort of thing. They are free from the debasement of nature. Imagine choosing a future spouse purely on a melding of minds? Imagine if the rest of the population ran on such ideals? A utopian world, truly. 

Yet here Fenton is, presented this marvelous, unique opportunity to bond with another individual on a truly intellectual level, independent of hormones and sex and breeding, and who does he pick?

Some brawny wannabe jock about as intelligent as a watermelon.

The kind of guy that beat up nerds like them back in high school.

Surely Gyro is just looking at the situation entirely wrong. It’s a notion that he has found himself floundering over. All the indications point to the most likely scenario – the way he constantly checks his phone, the way he smiles when he taps at the screen, the way he always makes sure to touch up his hair and straighten his tie before one of their lunch dates. 

Except Fenton has not offered up any such information on this aspect of his personal life. And Fenton doesn’t seem like the type to keep that sort of thing secret. He eagerly shares with his boss anything from what he had for breakfast to how long it took him to arrive at work this morning. No, the boy is too open to keep such information to himself. He’s the type who would explode from eagerness if he were forced to keep good news inside.

Of course, Gyro has only known the kid for less than three months, so what does he know? Maybe it isn’t news at all. Maybe Fenton has been dating this guy for months, years. Maybe he just hadn’t heard about him before because Fenton was afraid of coming off as too informal in the workplace. Maybe he never stopped by for lunch the first six weeks because he had been booked with a traveling production. There could be a million explanations.

But that doesn’t really explain the changes in Fenton’s behavior. The changes in his demeanor. He walks about more confidently than he once had, no longer simpering but with his chest out. True, a new relationship, a doting boyfriend, could instill such confidence. But there could be other explanations.

Perhaps the shy young college student that he had first become acquainted with never really existed at all.

That isn’t to say Fenton is drastically different than he had seemed at first. But he’s more talkative, more outgoing than he previously let on. When he shows Gyro his work he is no longer asking for his approval, he is presenting his labor for him to inspect. He still follows Gyro around like a lost puppy, but he is not entirely obedient to all his commands. He seeks Gyro’s respect but not necessarily his approval.

All that behavior, can’t that just be explained away as normal early on-the-job jitters? An overachiever like his intern may have just needed time to settle, to gain his footing, before allowing his true self to shine.

The way he smiles down at the phone though…

“That friend coming to take you to lunch again?” Gyro drawls, faking disinterest in the young man’s activities.

They’re taking their morning coffee break together. The entire routine is new to Gyro, a natural-born loner who has always preferred his interns take their breaks separately from his own. Preferably far away from him so he didn’t have to listen to their insipid pop music coming from their earbuds or catch them watching cat videos as they waited for their morning bagels to pop out of the toaster. Yet Fenton is different. Most days, they sit silently yet contently across from each other, Gyro drinking his coffee and occasionally nodding over whatever sci-fi book he’s reading, Fenton drinking his herbal tea and occasionally smiling over a school textbook.

Gyro doesn’t like him looking at his phone instead. He’s neglecting his tea and he isn’t looking at him at all. He isn’t smiling at him, he’s smiling at his phone, at the texts from _him_.

“What? Oh, yeah,” Fenton confirms Gyro’s question about the new guy. Sensing his mentor’s apparent disapproval, he turns off his screen and sets his phone down. As if he had committed some sort of social faux pas by texting at the table. “It’s okay if I take an hour?”

Gyro waves his hand dismissively. He’d prefer to tell him he can’t take one at all but that would be cruel. And against the law.

There is nothing new about this situation. A drake dating another drake. Except, of course, the guy’s name is literally Drake. It’s a stupid name and Gyro let the guy know that the first time he showed up but the idiot had just smiled politely and laughed, scratching at the back of his head, feigning the role of loveable idiot as he agreed with Gyro on the matter. And God had Gyro hated that. He didn’t want the guy to agree with him. He wanted a reason to argue with the guy. He wanted a reason to despise the guy.

And he doesn’t even know why.

What has he done besides potentially date his intern?

Why should Gyro care who Fenton dates?

Male ducks date male ducks all the time. They have difficulty relating to others in relationships because of their forced asexuality, everybody knows that. Gyro should just be glad that Fenton has found somebody like him in this city where ducks are such a small minority. He should support his relationship with this guy and wish them luck. Doesn’t his intern deserve a romantic interest?

Except Gyro doesn’t like the guy. His smile is too casual. His shoulders are too broad, his arms too thick for a male duck. He towers over Fenton’s slender form, casting a shadow that all but engulfs him. Fenton is…Fenton is a prime specimen. A well-cared-for bonsai tree. A pint-sized drake with thin arms and delicate fingers, well built for handling fragile glass vials and tiny electronic components. He is an example of the brilliance of science and all it can accomplish. He has risen above his own biology and excelled.

Gyro dwarfs him in height and breadth.

Not so with this guy. He’s much bigger than Gyro in build if not height and Gyro suspects he must be on some illegal low dosage implant. They allow those sometimes for set periods, usually for professional athletes, but this guy is an actor according to Fenton so what would his excuse be? What if his hormones are above acceptable levels? What if he displays violent tendencies? If he turned against his intern there is nothing Fenton could do to protect himself. The guy is probably three times the width across his chest as Gyro’s own gaunt form. Fenton would be helpless in such a situation. If Drake cared about Fenton, he wouldn’t risk putting him in such a dangerous position.

This guy, he doesn’t _deserve_ Fenton.

He gets him anyway. He shows up at their usual lunchtime, swaggering through the lab door in some douchebag actor outfit with a blue turtleneck and suede fucking boots. The homely sweater shows off his tapered waist and his broad chest and he looks like he belongs in one of those shampoo ads where the entire thing is shot in the shower. He slips his arm around Fenton’s shoulders and they leave together, and Fenton is talking in that stupid breathy voice he always uses around the guy. Gyro wants to punch the jackass in his giant bill.

Is that what Fenton is into? Giant bills? Self-consciously, Gyro reaches up to touch his own relatively small beak. It’s fine. A normal size for a chicken. Smaller than Fenton’s, definitely, but Fenton is a duck. All ducks have large beaks. But that guy makes Fenton’s bill look tiny by comparison. It takes up half his damn head and Gyro bets he had trouble even fitting that ugly sweater over his head today with that thing on his face getting in the way.

If he were to be perfectly honest, Gyro doesn’t mind Fenton’s bill at all. Usually, he finds himself distracted by the scale of the beak on most ducks, and while he knows, mathematically, that Fenton’s is of average size, it seems somehow more proportionate to his face. It just _fits_ him.

The maybe-boyfriend’s though?

Gyro sits alone in the breakroom and feigns absorption in his current novel as he picks disinterestedly at his own lunch. Instant noodles from one of the cupboards he keeps as a backup option for whenever his intern is unavailable to pick up food. Strictly speaking, he cannot force one of his workers to use their lunch break fetching his takeout orders. He does, however, have the ability to assign this responsibility to Fenton while still on the clock so he has nobody to blame except himself for the pathetic excuse for a meal.

He doesn’t have much of an appetite anyway. The noodles are more for show than anything. So that Gyro can leave the trash scattered across half of the table for Fenton to clean up when he returns as visible proof that he is capable of continuing on as normal without his presence.

The dickhead is nearly ten minutes late dropping Fenton off. At least he has the courtesy to not escort him back inside. His intern’s hair is messier than when he had left, which says a lot considering the usual state of Fenton’s feathers, and for some reason, his face is slightly shiny with what appears to be sweat. It’s nearly November, why would he be sweating?

After only an hour back on the clock, the duck excuses himself. “I’m going to pour a cup of tea; would you like another cup of coffee while I’m there?

Gyro declines the offer. He’s lying on his back under an ancient computer that the university had sent down to his lab. It has less power than a scientific calculator, but he has some important plans for it once he figures out an efficient way to transfer the data of thousands of punched cards to a more modern storage source.

It’s not long before Fenton is back. Gyro can see his feet from beneath the computer. He hands him the tools as he requests them, but he mostly stands there, sipping and it sounds like chewing? Unless he’s standing there crumpling pieces of paper in his hand or something.

Gyro rolls out on the creeper and sits up, wiping the decades-old dust from his hands with a blue towel. Fenton is standing there with a piece of toast in his hand.

“Didn’t you just go out for lunch with what’s-his-name?” Gyro asks, snidely, unable to hold back the contempt in his voice. Fenton wolves down the last bite of the toast as if he hasn’t eaten in days. “What did he do, take you to a bar and make you eat the free pretzels?”

“I, I just have a fast metabolism,” Fenton stutters, a clear lie because no drakes have fast metabolisms. If anything, the implants cause some to gain weight. Gyro puts his hand out and Fenton grabs it, helping pull him to his feet. The movement sends a whiff of something in Gyro’s direction.

“Are you going to use that same excuse for why you smell like sweat? High body temperature?”

“Oh, uh,” his intern laughs uncomfortable. There are toast crumbs on his tie. Gyro feels itchy just looking at them. “We didn’t go out to eat. We, uh...went to the gym. He’s, uh, training me, you see. Giving me pointers on, uh...deadlifting?”

“Deadlifting?” Gyro asks dryly. He reaches over to brush off the crumbs despite himself. His intern flinches as if he had been expecting his mentor to strike him.

“Yeah,” Fenton says, gritting his teeth. He’s clenching his fist at his side, the one not holding his tea, and breathing heavily for some reason. “You know, building up the old muscles.”

He holds up his arm, flexing it for Gyro to see, and he’s surprised to actually spot a small lump forming beneath his feathers. It could be a muscle.

To be fair, it could also be a spider bite.

For some reason, his arm is shaking as he holds it up. Overexertion, perhaps? Fatigued muscles? Somebody Fenton’s size isn’t made for that intensive of a workout.

“Well, just be careful,” Gyro scolds him. Internally, he’s fuming. This prick just shows up and starts acting like he owns the place, trying to turn Fenton into a miniature version of himself. Fenton is a scientist, not a jock, he is perfectly fine how he is. More than fine, his body is ideal, what scientists have sought for years in the creation of the perfect drake. But he can’t say that to him. “I don’t want you pulling a muscle and making yourself useless around here.”

* * *

Four days later, he shows up again. Except for this time, he’s brought _company_. Gyro stares up at the giant creature at his side, straining his neck back to do so, and wonders how a male duck could ever manage to grow so large in this day and age. If Fenton is a shining example of science’s success, this guy is a glaring example of science’s failure. 

Fenton introduces him as Launchpad. Gyro wants to mock his name in the same way he had mocked Drake’s, but Jesus. He’s the size of a small car. He could take Gyro out with one punch if he gave him a reason to do so. Neither of them mentions a last name; maybe he pulled himself from the bowels of the earth himself, coated in clay and molten rock?

The beast presents himself as suspiciously friendly. He grabs Gyro’s hand between two beefy fists and pumps them enthusiastically, smiling and jabbering on about how he’s heard so much about him from his pal Fenton. Meanwhile, Gyro’s shoulder is screaming from the jerking and he’s trying to pull his arm away from this monstrosity of a bird. Horrendous. To think, this could be the type of duck that one would see roaming around under more natural conditions. No wonder they used to euthanize so many of them in the past. What a threat such creatures pose.

He can’t imagine somebody as slight and mild-mannered as Fenton having such potential in his genes. But sentimentality has nothing to do with any of this, Gyro is a scientist, and he is very aware that Fenton very well might have developed into such a creature without intervention.

Fenton claims the beast is a friend, in the same way that he had told him that Drake was a friend. Gyro feels his stomach roll at the very idea of it. Why is Fenton associating with such hooligans? The best of his generation and the worst. Launchpad is even more offensive than Drake. He is not just somewhat dull, he’s about as bright as a blown light bulb. 

The idea of his impressionable, absolutely minuscule-in-comparison intern walking away with these two leaves Gyro grasping for straws, trying to come up with any reason for him to turn down their little meeting, but he comes up with nothing. Before they leave, Gyro takes Fenton by the arm and pulls him aside for a private talk. He speaks quietly and quickly.

“You have my number if you need me for anything, right?”

“I...yes?” Fenton asks, clearly confused. “We’ll just be gone an hour though; I don’t know what I would need?”

The entire time they’re gone, Gyro paces the length of the lab. He can’t even force himself to pretend to eat and his nerves are shot so he powers up Fenton’s electric kettle and actually helps himself to one of the young man’s herbal teas. It smells like wet flower petals and doesn’t taste any better and Gyro can’t help but wonder how anybody could drink something this disgusting when there are perfectly good coffee beans available. He forces himself to finish it.

As the hour comes to a close, he returns to his computer and attempts to look engaged with his work, making a show of not looking up when the doors open.

Fenton is damp. His hair is just short of dripping and the rest of his feathers have a glowing sheen. Strange. Is he using some sort of lavish moisturizer?

“More deadlifting?” Gyro snorts decisively, visibly looking him up and down. “Looks like you had the common sense to take a shower at the gym this time, at least.”

Fenton just smiles awkwardly at him. Did he change his shirt? Gyro can’t quite remember what he had been wearing before but why would he have to change his outfit? Wouldn’t he have already changed when he arrived at the gym?

Like he had the other day, his intern disappears after an hour to fetch something to eat and drink. He returns with some sort of sweet bread, but he’s holding two of the small loaves in his hand and offers one for Gyro. Instinctively, Gyro starts to reject the offer, but the kid is looking up at him with big, pleading eyes, and he takes it despite himself. He can’t force himself to thank him for the free food, however, and instead just compliments the taste after a couple of bites.

“I helped M’ma make them Saturday,” Fenton beams, entirely too upbeat for a Monday afternoon. “We made a big batch for the church social. Sorry if it’s a bit stale.”

Church social? What year is it? 1952? 

Besides, who even cares about stale bread? Gyro has been known to eat around the moldy parts on occasion.

Gyro says something vaguely insulting about the ridiculousness of religion and they get back to work. However, when he notices Fenton wince as he leans over to try to tighten a bolt on their developing supercomputer, Gyro feels the compulsion to at least inquire about his condition. He did bring him homemade food, after all.

“Did that big brute go too hard on you?” Gyro asks sharply, careful to keep any warmth from contaminating his words. Strictly business as usual. “I told you to be careful! You can’t just jump into heavy lifting like that, you need to work your way up!”

“I, uh, yeah,” Fenton agrees. When Gyro looks towards him, he is quite obviously avoiding his eyes. He continues with his work, moving onto the next bolt. “You’re right, I bit off more than I could chew. I’ll tell them to go easier on me next time.”

* * *

After that day, the giant starts showing up with the dimwit every second or third visit, further complicating an already complicated matter. He never touches Fenton like Drake does, thank God, but sometimes Gyro catches him with his arm around the jerk’s waist, pulling it away just as they enter the door in search of his intern. Is it possible Gyro is reading the entire situation wrong? Is it Launchpad and Drake who are dating? Or is it possible that Drake is two-timing his poor, naive employee and Fenton is too oblivious to even notice it?

The third time Gyro catches the two cozying up before Fenton appears to greet them, he waits until his return and corners him in the breakroom.

“So, those two,” he drawls, a steaming cup of coffee clasped securely between his hands. Good, reliable, bitter, black coffee. None of that flowery nonsense. “They seem very...friendly with each other.”

“I’d hope so,” Fenton snorts. He’s cleaning up after Gyro’s lunch, throwing out the empty minestrone can and scrubbing the bowl and spoon he had left lying beside the sink. “They’ve been together for like five years.”

Together?

Like, _together_ together?

Fenton is humming to himself as he washes up the dishes, swaying to a vaguely familiar tune as he continues with his grunt work. What in the world... Why is he so happy?

“That is quite a while,” Gyro says slowly. Abruptly, he becomes aware that Fenton is wagging his tail along to the melody. Once he notices it, he is unable to look away. What an unbridled show of joy. He knows about the release of endorphins and dopamine and all that jazz associated with exercise, but this is ridiculous.

“Mmm, yeah, I suppose,” Fenton agrees, his back still to Gyro. “I think they’re both waiting for the other to propose.”

“Are they that serious?” Gyro asks, absentmindedly. Caught up in his duties, Fenton is oblivious to Gyro’s eyes on him.

“Well, yeah,” Fenton shrugs one narrow shoulder. He’s still wiggling his tail in a distracting manner. Gyro feels a disturbingly strong urge to reach out and stroke the little brown puffball. “Drake has always been sort of a playboy. Back when we were in middle school, he had a new girlfriend every week. It slowed down to every month in high school. But since he met Launchpad he’s turned into this domestic house-husband wannabe. It’d be cute if it weren’t so jarring.”

Middle school? Fenton has known this guy since middle school?

He’s an old childhood friend?

 _Just_ an old childhood friend?

Next time Gyro sees the actor, his beak doesn’t look quite so big on his face. Gyro compliments the lovely lavender shade of his pricey-looking cardigan and asks him what shows he’s performed in recently. Surprised, Drake blinks at him for a moment and then starts spouting off about his current production in St. Canard, offering him free tickets if he happens to be in the city.

He’s not that bad a guy at all, really.

* * *

Fenton’s favorite local eatery is a Sichuan restaurant by the bay. Gyro was unaware of the place’s existence half a year ago. He wasn’t even exactly sure what Sichuan food consisted of until the first time Fenton dragged him to the hole in the wall restaurant, claiming he had a strong craving for something called dan dan noodles. 

“The Yelp reviews for this place are astounding,” Fenton had gushed, literally dragging him by the hand down the sidewalk. Gyro had been less than enthusiastic about the rundown look of the place. “Everyone says the food is super authentic, so you know it has to be good!”

The owners are somehow connected to a local fish market, through family Gyro assumes, and they always list a variety of fish of the day selections on the blackboard out front. The menu promises the freshest seafood in the city at the best prices. Despite this, neither of them has ever ordered the fish. They usually pick out three or four of the other dishes and share them as they throw back strong, sweet drinks at their favorite table under a large willow tree. Gyro always pays at the end of the meal and Fenton always takes home the leftovers in the little cardboard containers.

Gyro is aware that Fenton has very little of his own money to spare. He can’t afford to pay him out of his own pocket but sending him home with a meal's worth of leftovers is about the least he can do to show his appreciation for all his hard work.

It’s a beautiful sunny Friday when Drake cancels their lunch date. Gyro has been watching Fenton check and re-check his phone for the past hour, eager for some sort of confirmation, when his face suddenly takes on a crestfallen expression.

“I guess I don’t need the full hour, after all,” Fenton sighs, tucking his phone away in his pocket. Gyro should feel relieved over this fact. He hates when his interns slack over their work to play on their phones.

But he looks so damn depressed over the cancellation.

When the lunch hour hits, Gyro tells him they’re going out for lunch together. It is not a request and he doesn’t tell them where they’re going, though he guesses quickly once he sees where Gyro is driving. The woman at the desk greets them, smiling, and asks if they want their usual spot under the tree.

Gyro is glad the weather is still nice enough to sit outside. If anything, the slight breeze in the air helps, hindering the sweat across Gyro’s brow that normally accompanies the spicy dishes. Fenton never sweats, of course, the boy is a spice fiend. He complains that Gyro always orders their dishes medium and then adds extra spice to his own plate.

When the waiter approaches the table, Gyro orders drinks for the two of them and allows Fenton to pick the food. Never anything too exotic. Fenton claims tripe and beef tongue are both delicious, but the first time he even suggested ordering such a thing Gyro had informed him he’d be eating it on his own so Fenton is careful to select more American-friendly dishes for them. Twice cooked pork, dumplings, boiled beef, and of course, his favorite, the dan dan noodles. It all comes with a large bowl of rice.

This is a special occasion. They are not actually celebrating anything, but this is not the same as grabbing a couple of burritos before heading back to the lab. Neither of them will be up for any heavy science after a drinking lunch and that’s fine; it’s a Friday and they have no immediate deadlines. That said, they have a lively discussion over several tiki cocktails, the alcohol loosening Fenton’s tongue so that he finds himself brave enough to even disagree with Gyro on a few points. His attempts to explain his opposition to Gyro’s opinions fall flat, but he’s trying and that’s worth something.

It occurs to Gyro at one point, as Fenton is blabbering on about the concept of numerous dimensions and how they relate to the creative abilities of the mind, that this boy is likely the most intelligent intern he has ever taken under his wing. A decade and a half of mentoring these kids, and a duck is turning out to be his star pupil.

Who’d a thunk it?

“You have to admit, it’s at least an interesting possibility,” Fenton finishes up his spiel.

“It is,” Gyro agrees, leaning his cheek on his hand as he watches his intern with a fond smile. “But one without any legitimate way to prove or disprove the theory behind it.”

“Not that we know of yet,” Fenton says. He fiddles with the straw in his third drink, bringing it to his mouth. Gyro watches him drain the rest of the glass, sucking at the end of the straw until the hollow, airy noise signifying the end of the cocktails is audible. Their waiter appears almost immediately, asking them if they’d like to order another round.

“Just a couple of waters,” Gyro says before Fenton even gets the straw out of his mouth. “Could we also get a couple of to-go boxes?”

“Are you okay to drive?” Fenton asks. His voice isn’t exactly slurring but he’s talking slowly, over-enunciating his words as if he were very aware how easily he could revert to a slur.

“Not everyone is a lightweight,” Gyro smirks at him.

“It’s your damn metabolism,” Fenton accuses, coming about as close to swearing as he ever does. He rubs tiredly at one eye with the palm of his hand as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “What I would give to have a butt like yours. Do you know how much I used to get teased in elementary school over the size of my butt? Sometimes being a duck really blows.”

Gyro laughs despite himself. He’s sure the statement is true but the way he says it and of all the topics he chooses to express that opinion on, and it’s the size of his behind. As if there aren't dozens of bigger, more important issues with being a duck. The implant, the difficulties of finding partners, of having children, the prejudice, the housing problems, the curfews, and limited job opportunities.

And Fenton is talking about his ass. And yes, it is true that it is somewhat big, but Gyro wouldn’t consider that a bad thing. It’s plump and very soft looking and-

“Honestly, I think your butt is pretty cute,” he gets out before he realizes what he is saying.

Gyro winces when he looks up to see Fenton’s reaction. He’s just staring at him, head tilted slightly to the side like a puppy. Shit. This is the sort of thing that could turn into sexual harassment accusations. Yes, he has tenure, and in all likelihood, nobody would put the words of a young duck over that of a respected professor, but it’s not something he wants on his record. And to be perfectly honest, he just prefers not to make Fenton feel uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t mean it...like that. I just meant that you shouldn’t be ashamed of your body. We all have our own insecurities. You wish you had my metabolism? Well, look at me, I’m a scrawny beanpole. I always have been. Sure, I could bulk up if I drank protein shakes and worked out like mad every day, but it’s unfair that I would have to waste my time like that to just look like a normal person.”

“You are normal,” Fenton says quietly. All the playfulness has disappeared from his voice. He’s playing with the straw in his empty glass, appearing undeniably depressed. A moody drunk, maybe. Gyro has seen him tipsy before, but the topics have been light enough to keep any darker emotions at bay. “Imagine such a thing. Just being able to be who you were born to be.”

Gyro feels thankful when their waiter reappears with water and boxes as well as the check. He slaps his credit card into the faux-leather book and hands it back to the waiter, not even checking the cost of today’s lunch or perusing for incorrectly billed items as he usually would. 

The ride back to the lab is uncomfortable. Not unbearably so, but Gyro is still relieved when they’re able to park the car, make their way to the lab, and go their separate ways. Because of his inebriated state, Gyro doesn’t trust Fenton with anything too difficult, so he assigns him to deep cleaning the tanks they had recently emptied of bioluminescent snails. Gyro retires to his own computer to respond to campus emails from a number of former and potential students, professors, and administrative professionals. He’s neglected them for the good part of a week now and they’re starting to stack up, reminding him that he is theoretically employed as a professor, first and foremost, even if he isn’t teaching any classes until the spring. 

Well, technically speaking, Fenton will be teaching a class in the spring. If Gyro didn’t fuck everything up today with that comment about his ass. It will be a good opportunity for him.

He’s only about halfway through his responses when his intern appears at his side, informing him he has completed his assignment.

“Well, go clean out the fridge,” Gyro says, waving his hand dismissively. “And tidy up the rest of the breakroom. You can leave after that.”

“It’s not even three o’clock,” Fenton points out. His voice warbles. When Gyro turns to look at him, he is standing much further from him than he usually does. A good seven or eight feet.

“It’s Friday,” Gyro responds, frowning. Fenton’s behavior is a bad sign. “I’m sure you have homework to catch up on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir. The title makes Gyro cringe. Fenton hasn’t called him that since his first week on the job. Did he really fuck this all up this badly? It isn’t like he hit on him or anything. He’s his intern and he’s a duck. He would never express any sexual interest in somebody like that. Sure, he’s kind of cute, in that bumbling, pathetic way. He has a nice face, and he takes good care of his feathers and he really does have a cute butt despite what he thinks. But Gyro isn’t an idiot. He would never allow himself to fall for somebody who is such a horrible choice in so many ways. 

Or at least he would keep it to himself if he did.

It must only be ten, fifteen minutes later that the crash comes from the breakroom. Needing an excuse to get away from his computer, and wanting a reason to check in on Fenton, Gyro takes this opportunity to stand, stretch his arms over his head, and stroll into the breakroom.

Fenton is on his knees with the little yellow hand broom and matching dustpan, cleaning up what are clearly the remains of Gyro’s shattered coffee mug.

Great.

He isn’t super attached to the thing, but he appreciates familiarity.

“You broke my mug,” he states the obvious. He is towering over his intern, the small duck still on his hands and knees on the floor. His admittedly plush-looking behind is in the air but he’s not wagging his tail today. It's tucked forlornly against him.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Fenton stutters. He sounds like he’s near tears which makes Gyro feel like shit. He wasn’t trying to accuse him of anything, he had just said the first words that came out of his mouth. “I was- I wasn’t thinking. I just got distracted and I didn’t-”

“It’s just a mug,” Gyro says. He crouches down so that he is not dwarfing Fenton with his height. He doesn’t want to intimidate his employee right now. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure you don’t leave any shards around; you might step on one.”

Fenton shows no indication if he is even aware that Gyro is showing specific concern for his safety. Only the intern walks around the breakroom shoeless, slipping on a pair of boots in the lab when the occasion calls for it. The likelihood of Gyro being hurt by a ceramic shard coming up through the sole of his shoe is minuscule.

“I...yes, sir.” He doesn’t meet Gyro’s eyes, even with him at nearly eye level.

In the back of his mind, Gyro is aware that he should walk back to his computer, get back to the emails. But he’s not sure if he can think of worse torture right now than responding to yet another request to speak at the science club’s inauguration meeting in January. Instead, he takes down a plain red mug from the cupboard and pours himself a cup of old, stale coffee, and sips at it as he watches Fenton putter around the breakroom. Once the floor is clean, he turns to wash down the table, and then the counters. Gyro leans against the counter near the sink, just out of reach of being splashed whenever Fenton rinses out the old gray rag he’s using to clean with.

Where did he even find that thing? There are plenty of fresh cloths around the lab.

The entire time, as he stands there drinking the burnt-tasting coffee, Fenton refuses to look at him. He stops short of refusing to acknowledge him, but he attempts no small talk. There are no jokes or even any questions about any of their projects. Just the occasional “excuse me” when he walks by him and a “sorry” when he accidentally steps on his foot.

This is not a good sign. He never meant to make his intern feel harassed. He doesn’t want this lab to be an uncomfortable workplace for anybody. The boy's hands are shaking so hard he's having difficulty wiping down the coffee pot. Him standing here shouldn’t force the boy to scurry around like an abused stepchild. He wants to make things right, not worse.

“Fenton,” he begins.

“I’m sorry,” Fenton says immediately, turning to face Gyro with his head down. “I’m not...myself. Right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Gyro asks, thoroughly confused now. And what is the young duck apologizing for? He has done absolutely nothing wrong as far as Gyro is aware. Unless he messed up on an experiment and has been keeping it from him.

“Drake, his visit,” Fenton stumbles, figuratively and literally as he bumps into the table while backing away from Gyro. Gyro’s stomach clenches at the sight of the poor kid trying to get away from him. “I just, when he didn’t show- I really needed to see him and he- Well.”

“What does Drake have to do with anything?” Gyro wonders dazedly.

“I just, I can’t...it’s really hard, right now.” Sweat shines on Fenton’s face. His entire body is shaking. His voice sounds high, panicky.

“You’re blathering,” Gyro points out. He takes a cautious step towards the small duck, his arms up as a show of peace. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenton shakes his head. He’s trying to step back but the table is against the wall and there is nowhere for him to go. He’s acting more like a cornered rat than a doctorate student. There is absolutely something wrong with him and this is about more than Gyro's inappropriate comment.

“Of course, it does,” Gyro replies, taking another step closer. He reaches for Fenton’s trembling hand. He jerks it away violently, slapping it onto the table behind him. “Please, tell me what's wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“Please, just leave me alone,” Fenton pleads. He is so close to crying and Gyro isn’t sure what he’s going to do if he starts. He isn’t good with people when they’re crying. He’s not even good with them when they’re not. The intern reaches up to wipe at his face, the movement almost violent, as if punishing himself for the tears.

The most likely explanation is probably drugs. He’d be far from the first college kid to try to get through classes and work on speed or cocaine. Though he can’t imagine how Fenton could possibly afford the stuff. Unless that is what he’s apologizing for. Maybe he’s been stealing from the supply closet, selling some of the more dangerous chemicals for pocket cash.

He would have turned in past interns for that sort of thing. He doesn’t even think about doing it for this kid. He doesn’t want to punish him.

“Is Drake your dealer?” Gyro asks gently. He touches Fenton’s forearm; the muscles are taut. “Are you in withdrawal?”

“No!” Fenton says, then immediately backtracks. His knuckles are white where they grip the side of the table. “Maybe? I, I don’t know.”

“Let me help you,” Gyro pleads.

“You can’t,” Fenton insists.

“I can,” Gyro says. “If you just let me. I want to help you.”

“I’m sorry,” Fenton’s voice cracks. He sounds so desperate, so broken in that instant.

The wind is nearly knocked out of Gyro’s body by the force of his back slamming against the wall. The back of his head is shooting pain across his eyes. And Gyro isn’t even aware that he is being kissed for several long seconds, too distracted by the pain and the difficulty breathing.

There are hands on him. They seem to be everywhere. On his face, his throat, touching his protruding ribs through his shirt, then they’re under his shirt, fingertips raking through his feathers. The sound of his belt buckle being undone. His head is throbbing. Does he have a concussion? White sparks cloud his vision. No, his eyes are closed. He wants to open them, but he can’t. He’s afraid to.

Thin fingers grab at him, jerking him, and he’s only distantly aware that they’re trying to make him hard. What is going on? Why is Fenton’s body pressed against his own? Why is he biting him? Why is his hand inside his pants? Why is he saying sorry again and again and again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sidenote: I know Duckburg/St. Canard are technically supposed to be in a location similar to northern California. Since Sacramento averages mid-60s in November it is entirely conceivable that it could be well into the 80s some days so eating lunch outside in Duckburg in November wouldn’t be unpleasant. St. Canard is more like San Francisco which can often be cold even in the middle of summer so Drake favoring sweaters in the fall would also be acceptable. I know the cities are close, but the temperature can vary wildly between the two just like Sacramento and San Francisco can irl.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to mention I never meant the last chapter to be a cliffhanger. It just came off that way because that’s where I wanted to switch to Fenton’s POV and the chapter was longer than I wanted it to be at that point.

The situation has somehow simultaneously improved and worsened over the last few weeks.

The general desperation, the need to touch and grab and penetrate something, anything, is less consuming than it had been that night he had driven in a panicked frenzy through the streets of St. Canard. It no longer feels as if his fingers are constantly twitching, resisting the urge to take what he is not allowed. He doesn’t feel in constant danger of harming someone.

This particular improvement Fenton attributes solely to the actions of Drake and Launchpad.

The two of them are remarkable. For no other reason besides their concern for Fenton’s well-being, they have sacrificed their free time, their sleep, their couch, and even parts of their relationship. They are his guardian angels, looking after him, doting over him, making sure to be available at all hours of the day. In some twisted way, having the two tending him is almost like inheriting an extra set of parents. It’s a strange feeling. It’s as if the two men are the first to have ever afforded Fenton a real sense of unconditional love. Depressing, in a way, because that is the sort of love that should be provided from parents, from his mother. He can’t even tell his own mother about what he is going through. He fears being turned away, shunned by his own family. At the very least, disappointing her.

Fenton loves his mother. Of course, he loves her. But right now, he needs somebody who won’t just love him but accept him. And that’s what his friends are capable of doing. They are absolutely selfless in their caring towards him.

Absolutely selfless.

All the science says as two sexually mature drakes, this should not be the case. Unaltered male ducks are not capable of selflessness. Not fully, not when it gets in the way of their own needs and wants and urges. They can be kind and thoughtful when it is easy and not at their own expense but he has gotten in the way of some of their basic physiological needs.

How Fenton had misjudged Launchpad early on. He feels bad about the things he had thought about him before, how he had judged him so harshly for so many years. He had always seemed like a lumbering brute, constantly towering over Drake, possessive. He had thought the older man was somebody worth avoiding. Fenton couldn’t have been further from the truth. Launchpad is even more caring, more nurturing than Drake.

Drake is all tough love. He doesn’t coddle Fenton when he gets down and starts moaning about how worthless he is. He doesn’t let him mope over the injustices of being born a male duck.

“This is the hand that life dealt us. We deal with it, we find our own way, and we live our best lives.”

Launchpad, on the other hand. He’s not a thinker. He’s not deeply philosophical. But he is very hands-on. He just seems to be able to tell when Fenton needs affection and being hugged by the man is like being hugged by a grizzly bear. Albeit a grizzly bear that is fully aware of his own strength. Once Fenton had gotten past his fear of him, something innate born of instinct and conditioning, he realized how absolutely secure he felt in the man’s arms. His size wasn’t foreboding, it was comforting. He felt like a small child, safe and sound in the arms of a parent.

The first time they had sex had been nearly as life changing as when he had lost his virginity to Drake. Drake is good at it, Fenton never leaves his arms anything but satisfied, but Launchpad fucks as if he was born for it. He could be the God of Sex. He makes Fenton see stars and hear the choir of the angels and by the time they’re finished, Fenton is always left a strung-out mess on the bed, feeling more like a used condom than a person.

For all of this, Launchpad is not good at setting boundaries. He is not good at saying no. That is Drake’s job. The third time Fenton had begged him, watery-eyed, to put the implant back in, Drake had taken the box from him and stuffed it inside his own pant’s pocket.

“I’m keeping hold of this,” he had informed Fenton, matter of fact as he patted his hip. “I promise I won’t destroy it, but I’m not letting your ruin your life because you have an existential crisis every time you pop a boner in front of your boss.”

Overall, between the two of them, they’ve done an amazing job at ensuring that Fenton has been satisfied frequently enough to keep his libido in check. On the other hand, now that he knows what it’s like, now that Fenton understands how amazing sex can be and how doing it with somebody you already care about just strengthens that bond, his need for Gyro Gearloose has become even more cemented into the synapses of his brain.

Drake doesn’t understand it.

“He’s a gawky chicken, he’s got twenty years on you, he yells at you constantly, and he dresses like the host of a children’s show with puppets.”

Love is something vague, undefinable, and insubstantial. How could Fenton possibly explain how Gyro makes him feel? How do you explain love, and the reasons behind it, to another person? If it is love. In the past he had never questioned these emotions. Neutered ducks are entirely capable of falling in love, they’re capable of developing crushes like any other individual. And in a way that type of love is purer. Simpler. Easier to identify and understand. When your feelings are completely genuine, not marred by sexual need, there is no room for confusion.

Is this love? Or is it just pure sexual attraction? Does Fenton fantasize about holding Gyro against him only because he wants to have intercourse with him? Or is it real? Something deeper?

They’ve had long conversations together into the night about it, just he and Drake. Launchpad is used to following an earlier daily schedule and barely ever makes it past midnight. So the two of them camp out together on the couch, eating ice cream and watching old kids shows they used to watch together when they were younger. It’s comfortable, nostalgic in its own way, except they had never cuddled naked beneath a quilt when they were children.

Drake, despite his rather average intelligence compared to Fenton’s own, can be surprisingly deep at times.

“When we’re being repressed, we are childlike. Our emotions are like those of children. Like two grade-schoolers on the playground punching each other on the arm because the concept of sexual attraction is not there but something still draws us, something that calls for physical interaction. Back in high school, when I used to date around so much, there was something there that compelled me to do so. But whatever I achieved through those relationships never satisfied that need. I knew, on an instinctual level, that something was missing. I think that’s why I was always looking for someone new. Part of me thought that the next person would fulfill that need. Then I met Launchpad and it was like I could finally feel. Like I had gone through my entire life wrapped up in protective bubble wrap and he freed me.”

What they had though, it’s different than what he and Gyro have. Drake had been dating Launchpad for months before he removed his implant. He removed it specifically because he had wanted to be closer to Launchpad than was possible with the implant. There had been nothing muddling those feelings, he had recognized them for what they were. At least, he had known them to the best of his abilities at the time. He had removed his implant because he didn’t want to lose Launchpad and he wanted that connection to him.

What connection does Fenton have to Gyro? He removed his implant within days of meeting his mentor. His memories still remain of that time, less than half of a year has passed, but remembering how one feels is different than remembering straight facts.

He does recall looking at Gyro that first day in his office and thinking he was a handsome man. He remembers how his hat had been tilted jauntily to the back and how strangely appealing that look had been on him. It had stood out as distinctly un-professor-like yet somehow still entirely intellectual. Pseudo-hipster. Even his thick glasses had been flattering to his face, framing it in a way that accentuated the delicate structure of bones.

This memory does confirm that Fenton had been able to recognize the aesthetic appeal of the older man from a non-sexual viewpoint. But that still says nothing about the emotional connection there.

Fenton is not a believer in love at first sight. Love is something that grows, that must be nurtured. There had already been sentiment attached to his boss those first few weeks, but not one of love, not exactly. Admiration. A hero-worship like awe. Later, the feelings had morphed from blind devotion to a deeply set sense of appreciation. Thankfulness that he was there to instruct him and mold him, to just give him the time of day.

These feelings, however, the ones that Fenton can only describe as love. They cannot develop in only a couple of weeks. By the time they formed, or by the time he truly recognized them at least, he had already begun masturbating to the thought of Gyro, naked and desperate, moaning beneath him. His feelings had been tainted. Maybe that warm, fuzzy feeling that always seems to appear in his stomach when he thinks of Gyro is just a mimicry of the warm, fuzzy feeling of a post-orgasmic glow. Maybe he Pavlov'd himself into thinking sexual sensations were love.

If only he had known the other man longer. If only he had waited six months before attempting the removal. If these emotions had developed and matured in that time, then he would be less eager to question the authenticity of his feelings.

By God. These feelings! They’re like nothing Fenton has ever felt before.

So much stronger than the crushes that he had found so distracting in the past. He thinks Drake’s idea had been correct. The crushes he had experienced in his youth had felt almost indistinguishable from those he developed as an adult. This whole time, is this how the rest of society has been living their lives? With these deep, all-encompassing emotions? With this breathtaking passion?

If he had the implant put back on, would he lose the ability to feel that way any longer?

Would he still love Gyro Gearloose? Could he still love him? And if he did would it be this deep, emotional connection that makes him feel like crying and laughing and screaming all at once, or would he be back to the schoolyard boy tugging at pigtails?

There is not a moment of the day he is not thinking of Gyro, wishing for what he cannot have. Even when he is with Drake or Launchpad, in the midst of passion, his mind is on the man. He would never tell them this, it would seem cruel to do so given how good they have been to him, but sometimes when he closes his eyes in the middle of it he pretends it is his boss on top of him, or, more rarely, beneath him. It’s easier with Drake than Launchpad given Launchpad’s enormous size; it is almost impossible to imagine that it is anybody but that giant on top of him.

Drake though. Drake is bigger than Fenton. But so is Gyro. In different ways, however. Gyro is tall and lanky and still has a few good inches on Drake in height. But Drake is wider, more muscular. Drake must be as wide across his shoulders as three of Gyro. Fenton tries not to touch his friend’s chest when he is imagining the chicken on top of him because it easily breaks the illusion. It’s simpler when they do it doggy style and all he can feel is Drake’s hands and cock, or even when he is taking Drake and he’s just creamy feathers and a tapered waist. Not the same color as Gyro’s, more orange than yellow, but close enough in dim lighting. He can rest his forehead against his back and breathe and pretend that he is feeling somebody else’s ribs beneath his fingertips.

Despite all this, despite the constant thoughts of Gyro swirling through his mind, the need to touch him is subdued. He wants to be around him, to talk to him, to make him look at him. To have him bless him with that rare smile. Not the smirk. Not the sneer of triumph. His genuine smile.

Of course, the other feeling is still here. He wants to touch him. He wants to kiss him and hold him. But it’s easier now. Even neutered, he had been attracted to the idea of kissing. It’s closer to those feelings he used to feel before the removal, just more intense. Not too intense to deal with, however. Fenton knows he can get through this.

Until the day Drake has to cancel.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assures him when Fenton escapes to the bathroom to call him in urgency. “I have an audition at one. I’m trying out for the lead with this new director that has been making it big in the St. Canard papers lately. You can drive over after work? Or I can send Launchpad to come get you?”

That is not their usual routine.

On Fridays, Drake drives to St. Canard to meet him for lunch. He’s always sleepy when he arrives, his late nights on the stage prevent him from becoming anything close to a morning person. But he makes the drive anyway, for Fenton. They hook up in Fenton’s apartment on his lunch break and Fenton rushes to shower and get back to the lab before the hour is up. Drake curls up in Fenton’s sex-perfumed sheets and naps for a couple of hours. Once Fenton is back from work, Drake drives them back to St. Canard with the use of the carpool lane, bypassing the majority of the Friday evening traffic. He stays with Launchpad until Drake’s Friday show is over.

Fenton spends the weekend at their apartment, sometimes devoting large chunks of his time to his homework, sometimes hitting the town with the two of them, but always taking breaks throughout the day to satisfy his lust with Drake or Launchpad or both. The weekends pass in a sex-fueled haze at times as he tries to sate himself on what won’t be available later. Monday morning, Drake drives them back to Duckburg just in time to drop Fenton off at work and then passes out once more in Fenton’s apartment. After another lunchtime romp, Drake heads back to St. Canard to make it home before his evening performance. One time, he had tried to stay until Fenton returned home for one last round, but without the use of the carpool lane, he had been nearly late for the show. Launchpad accompanies him, sometimes, but with his hours it is not usually possible for him to get away, especially on Fridays.

That only leaves Tuesday through Thursday. Not a long span of time, to be perfectly honest. But that is three days without somebody to help him. Unless Fenton is desperate enough to contact one of them and beg them to come to see him. He’s avoided doing so, for the most part, only giving in to such an urge on one or two occasions. He hates inconveniencing them and for them, that is a two-way trip alone.

Three days is nothing, really. It shouldn’t be. Except Fenton has a schedule. He has a routine. Every morning he goes to work with a countdown in his head. It could be three days or three hours but he can control himself with that knowledge. Knowing when he’ll get some relief ahead of time is what gets him through his day.

On Friday morning, he awakes with his body singing. Fridays are amazing. After a full work week of averting his gaze, Fenton finally allows himself to just watch Gyro Gearloose. It’s less torture, more teasing. A visual foreplay. Five hours of it. It drags and it causes a deep aching inside him but it makes it so much better when Drake finally shows up to whisk him away.

So what can he do when Drake messages him within an hour of their normal time to inform him he can’t make it? When he’s already hard under his lab coat and his heart is already beating a mile a minute in anticipation?

He tries to dial it back. He really does. He broods over it, finally deciding the best way to deal with it would be to rush home to masturbate and take a cold shower before returning to the lab. It won’t be as satisfying as having another living, breathing individual with him, but it would suffice until he made it out to St. Canard this evening.

Except Gyro disrupts this plan. He feels _sorry_ for Fenton. He feels _bad_ for him that Drake had to cancel their lunch plans. So he takes him out for lunch instead. And how can Fenton possibly explain to him that he can’t do lunch with him because he has to rush home and jerk off when he’s not even supposed to be capable of achieving an erection?

And the idea of spending a long drinking lunch with Gyro is so tempting. It’s been so long since they had one and he loves seeing Gyro with a few drinks inside him. Not drunk but relaxed, smiling and chatty but with his genius brain always at the forefront. Some of the most enlightening conversations Fenton has had in his entire life have been with a buzzed Gyro Gearloose.

How could he decline such an offer?

The lunch is a disaster. Gyro loosens his collar, leaving his bowtie hanging over his shoulders, and rolls his sleeves up past his elbows. It’s a look that screams “morning after” and the casualness of it is enough to leave Fenton panting. Then he does that thing where he orders both their drinks and it just makes it worse. Partially, there is the familiarity there involved. Ordering drinks for somebody is like acknowledging your closeness to them. On the other hand, there’s the whole dominance angle associated with the action. Gyro is controlling what Fenton is putting in his body, just as he controls what he does around the lab, and for some reason Fenton just really, really likes being told what to do sometimes.

He drinks more than he should, attempting to calm his frayed nerves. But Gyro is being so damn nice to him and Fenton can’t help but wonder.

Could Gyro possibly like him in return? In a non-platonic way?

The thought is ridiculous. He knows it is. What could he see in somebody like him? And why would he want to date somebody he thought couldn’t give him any physical release? It’s not unheard of, of course, it isn’t, but it isn’t common either. Maybe if Gyro himself were asexual or had intimacy issues. In the past, Fenton had never understood the importance of sex in a relationship. He hadn’t understood it when people would half-joke “If the sex is good the relationship is good, if the sex is bad the relationship is bad.” If you loved somebody why would something like sex matter?

He gets it now. And he tries his best not to dwell over it. That maybe if Gyro knew that he was capable of doing that with him now, maybe, just maybe, he would be interested in being with him.

He pushes the thought as forcibly from his mind like a tornado throwing aside a kite and concentrates on their conversation, on science.

But then the man makes that comment about Fenton’s posterior and it’s probably just the three drinks clouding his judgment, but Fenton can’t help but think maybe his thoughts weren’t that far off. Maybe, at the least, Gyro finds him physically attractive. Maybe Gyro has no interest in dating him but he might like watching him, right?

Fenton knows he isn’t the most attractive guy out there. He’s small, skinny in some areas, plump in others. His hair is always a mess. But he’s far from the ugliest guy either. He’s been told by girls in the past that he could be considered cute, depending on tastes.

He’s looking for things that aren’t there. He has to be.

On the drive back, Fenton makes the resolve to distance himself from Gyro for the rest of the day. His body and his mind are both on high alert and he’s noticing everything – how Gyro swallows, the sleepy drawl to his voice, the way he keeps looking towards him. And Fenton knows he is not in the right state of the mind. He is over-boozed and under-sexed. He is being too casual. He concentrates on seeing Gyro as his boss, as Dr. Gearloose, not as the star of all his erotic fantasies.

Gyro doesn’t make it easy. He’s being so damn sweet. He’s being considerate. He’s concerned about Fenton and he isn’t yelling at him for his mistakes and he is worried about him.

“…just let me. I want to help you.”

Fenton isn’t even thinking when he goes for it. All he’s thinking about is what could help him, and that Gyro just asked him to do it. He as much gave him his consent to do as he pleases with his body.

It’s all he had imagined it to be. More. Because the imagination can never really fill in all the small parts. How his mouth tastes. How he smells. How warm his body is, the sounds of the ruffling of his shirt. How silky his feathers are beneath his palms.

How the scenario could play out doesn’t even cross his mind. Gyro is so much larger than him, it’s not like he can just pick him up and take him on the counter. Fenton’s hips don’t even reach the counter. And there isn’t anything immediately available that would serve as a decent lube. All he can do is rut his hardon against one of Gyro’s slim thighs as he grabs at him, trying to touch all of him. His entire world has turned into taste and smell and touch.

He doesn’t hear Gyro telling him to get away from him. He doesn’t hear him demanding to know what he thinks he’s doing. He has Gyro’s cock in his hand and it’s heavy and warm, bigger than Drake’s, much bigger than his own, even in this rubbery half-hard state. He can smell his musk and it makes Fenton’s own cock throb in anticipation.

And then he’s on the floor. His head is aching. There is shattered glass all around him.

“Good, I didn’t kill you,” Gyro grunts from above him. He’s put himself back together, his pants zipped up, shirt tucked in. Fenton is confused. How did that all happen in one second? He just had his hand inside those trousers. “Though I don’t think anybody would have blamed me if I would have.”

“What happened?” Fenton gets out, whispering to try to avoid the throbbing in his skull. The light hurts his eyes. He thinks he just woke up.

“You tried to rape me so I hit you over the head with the coffee pot.”

“Well, that explains the headache,” Fenton groans. He begins to sit up, realizing quickly that he can’t move his hands more than a couple inches apart from each other. Gyro has tied his wrists together with what appears to be Saran Wrap. “Is this really necessary?”

“I repeat, you tried to rape me,” Gyro repeats, pointing a small metal fork at him. Did the guy fear something would happen if he left the break room for three seconds with Fenton knocked out on the floor? “Which, given current health protocols, should not have been possible. Do you care to explain?”

“Can I have a couple of Ibuprofen first?” Fenton asks, wincing. He’s afraid to move too far in any direction with the broken glass scattered around the floor. “And can you help me up?”

Gyro gets him situated on the opposite end of the table from him, the long end furthest from the door and Fenton sips at a mug of hot tea, cradling it between his bound hands. At least the pain is distracting him from his previous preoccupations.

“It…was an experiment,” Fenton began slowly, adjusting his position in the chair. “I have the written records of my progress at home if you need proof of such. I wanted to track how a body like mine would react if I were to remove the implant. There are so few studies about drakes experiencing normal hormone levels after an altered puberty. I couldn’t tell you what I was doing, it’s technically not legal, but sometimes science doesn’t fall entirely within the realms of legality, as you know.”

“We’re not talking about stem cell research or cloning here,” Gyro sneers at him. He’s still holding the fork in his hand but at least he’s resting his arms on the table, not just holding it straight at him. “What you were doing was dangerous for everyone around you.”

“It wasn’t,” Fenton begins, stopping almost at once. Because how can he possibly even argue such a thing now? Of course, Gyro is right. He is dangerous. He tried to rape his mentor. The man he loves. 

His mind is fuzzy already, trying to recall the details. He seems to remember thinking that Gyro had agreed to it but how could he agree to something he didn’t even understand? Gyro hadn’t known that Fenton was capable of getting an erection. His muddled mind had tried to convince himself that Gyro had wanted it, probably as a way to assuage his guilt. Otherwise, he would have had to accept the truth. He had turned into what he feared most and attacked the most important person in his life. He became what science said he would.

The science was right.

Science is always right.

Fenton is…was…a doctorate intern with possibly the most genius scientific mind on the planet. How could he even question the accuracy of the studies? Like some skeptic claiming that schools should teach the intelligent design theory because there wasn’t “enough proof” behind evolution. Much of science isn’t entirely verifiable. There are theories, outliers, but that doesn’t just make the science behind them wrong. Just somewhat flawed.

Every society, every study, every culture has recognized the violent tendencies of their drake population. Why should Fenton be any different?

“You’re right,” he says, hanging his head. Tears are already forming in his eyes. He reaches up to wipe at his face, forgetting for a moment that they’re bound together so that the plastic tugs at his wrist. “I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t blame you if you want to call the police on me. I know I deserve to be locked up. I deserve to be punished.”

In the end, Gyro does not call the cops. He doesn’t even fire him. Oh, he is angry. Dear God is he angry. He screams at Fenton for a good hour, calling him as many variations of the word “idiot” as exists in the English dictionary and a few in the Japanese. But once he has blown off that steam he tells him he isn’t going to fire him but he isn’t going to just turn a blind eye to this entire situation either.

“I’m going to put the implant back inside you myself,” he tells Fenton, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips, challenging the duck to attempt any sort of defiance. “And I’m going to add a tracking chip to it for good measure so I can keep an eye on it. Do you have it on you?”

Fenton shakes his head. He’s staring at Gyro’s hips because he can’t meet his eyes and even now he’s thinking about how attractive the chicken’s body is, how his slim waist begs to be encircled.

“Drake has it.”

“Drake?” Gyro asks, voice befuddled. Fenton notices the stiffness in his body. “Why would… He knows? Oh my God. He convinced you to do this, didn’t he? I bet he doesn’t have one either. Him or that behemoth he drags along with him.”

“Please leave them out of this,” Fenton pleads, turning his eyes down to the floor. “They’re not like me. They never hurt anybody.”

“I highly doubt that,” Gyro snorts. Fenton notices the way he taps his foot. Indignant, somehow. This man’s body really is like a work of art. He’s able to communicate so thoroughly with just his movements. “But I don’t care what those two morons are getting up to as long as they’re not near me. No, you’re my intern, you’re my responsibility.”

Gyro drives them both to St. Canard to fetch the implant from Drake. His car is much nicer than Fenton’s and usually, he enjoys an excuse to ride in it, but Gyro drives hunched close to the steering wheel with his hands gripping it tightly. Fenton sits in the back, diagonal from the driver’s seat, Gyro’s special patent-pending childproof seat belt design making it impossible for him to escape even if he wanted to.

His old friend doesn’t attempt to argue this time. He can see how angry Gyro is and he must sense that something has happened because he just shakes his head sadly when Fenton refuses to meet his eyes.

“It’s in the bedroom, I’ll be right back.”

Fenton isn’t even allowed to take the little box from him. Gyro snatches it up from him and excuses them with a disingenuous parting forced out through clenched teeth. “Thank you, have a lovely evening.”

Perhaps he is scared of Drake in the same way he is now scared of Fenton. Now that he knows Drake’s secret.

At least Gyro waits until they’re back to the lab to cut him open. It’s late by then. The trip to St. Canard and back, in Friday traffic nonetheless, takes a good four hours. At first, Fenton welcomes the idea of doing it in his workplace. It’s familiar, comfortable. But being in the lab after hours is eerie. The water outside, usually blue and clear, is inky black. The light inside the lab still glints across the occasional silvery fish scale on the other side of the window but the effect is just more haunting.

Fenton sits in a chair on the far side of the lab, one arm handcuffed to a water pipe, while he waits for Gyro to make the changes to the implant. His back is turned to Fenton and he watches him with a melancholy sigh. He feels like a common criminal. He supposes he is. Attempted rape is still a crime.

"I will be doing random manual checks to make sure you do not attempt to remove the implant again, so don't even try anything. I'll be able to scan the implant for authenticity.”

Fenton nods. He feels miserable. Just a few hours and he’s gone from eating an enjoyable lunch with his boss to this. Being tagged like a dog. He just hopes that someday Gyro will forgive him and they’ll be able to be that comfortable around each other once more.

Gyro uncuffs him and tells him to climb up on one of the lab tables. Fenton wants to protest, he’s fine sitting up for this procedure, but going against Gyro in any manner right now feels like flirting with disaster. He does as he says and is just thankful that Gyro has a decent anesthesia in the lab to numb his arm beforehand.

“Listen, Fenton,” Gyro says before he begins. He’s holding the scalpel just an inch over Fenton’s arm. He rubs his thumb along the inside of his elbow in a way that Fenton thinks is supposed to be comforting but just makes him feel ill. “I know that wasn’t you, okay? Not the true you. You made a mistake but that’s the mark of a good scientist. We make mistakes, we learn from them, we move on. I’m going to fix you. I’m going to help you get back to normal; your life will go back to how it always was. I still want you as my intern and I still believe you have the potential to be a great scientist someday. You just need to have control of yourself.”

Have control of himself.

What a joke. The implant isn’t him having control of himself, it’s society having control of him.

Fenton doesn’t watch his arm this time. He watches Gyro’s face, stony with concentration, and the sensation of being sliced open is no more urgent than the one of having a child tug at the hem of your shirt. He still can’t help but think that Gyro Gearloose is the most breathtakingly beautiful person he has ever seen as his brow furrows in concentration and his eyes grow dark with inner brilliance.

And his heart breaks a little inside when he realizes that he may not feel that way any longer in just a couple of weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

The lab is unexpectedly cool in the evening. Borderline chilly, even. The metal ring around his ankle feels uncomfortably icy and Fenton, on reflex, goes to pull his knees up to his chest, forgetting that he can’t until he hears the little chain rattle and feels the bite of steel into his skin. He sighs and wraps his arms around his middle instead, trying to hold in his warmth.

Fenton had never previously considered what his workplace would be like after hours. It doesn’t receive much outside light even during the day so he had assumed it would be about the same. It isn’t. The normally murky water outside isn’t merely dark, it’s black, ink-like. Just seeing how the lab itself looks with all the lights either off or dimmed is disconcerting. It has an abandoned hospital-like feel to it. It reminds Fenton of some movie he saw as a kid where a bunch of vampires took over a ward, taking out all the patients and doctors until only a couple of nurses remained. Ghost-like. Paired with the dark waters lurking outside the mostly black windows, he isn’t sure if the lab is more eerie infirmary or haunted lighthouse

Gyro didn’t seem disturbed by any of it when they had arrived to almost complete blackness, the shadows only interrupted by the un-coordinated blinking of blue and red and green lights across various machinery. He had only switched on one single light, the white fluorescent one directly overhead a well-sanitized section of the chemistry lab. The rest of the lab only seems darker in comparison to the industrial quality of this corner. Fenton wonders if Gyro is used to it going dark when he’s still working. The overhead lights are on a timer; they turn both on and off at pre-set times, though Fenton is unsure of exactly what those times are. When he arrives before Gyro most mornings, they are already on, sometimes shining against wet tiles that he always makes sure to steps carefully across. Traces of the building’s cleaning crew who leave just late enough that their paths never cross.

Just how late does Gyro stay sometimes? Seven? Eight? Midnight? He’s aware that Gyro often works well past the normal five o’clock clock out, caught up in one of his inventions or trying to hit an important deadline, but Fenton runs on a strict forty-hour weekly schedule and has never been allowed to stay late, even on the few occasions he had requested to do so.

“You’re an intern,” Gyro had squawked at him the first time he had asked if he could and help him finish up an experiment. “There are labor laws for this sort of thing. Go home and work on whatever paper you have coming up.”

Fenton hadn’t remembered mentioning any such paper, but he supposed that a doctorate student always had some paper coming up.

He isn’t sure if the heater is normally turned off or just down. It never gets below freezing in Stoopsburg, even in the dead of winter, but if it were to drop below fifty degrees it might cause issues with some of the equipment. The ocean water against the glass walls doubtlessly exacerbates the problem, robbing the heat from the panes. Fenton starts to tighten the arms around his middle, but the newly opened wound on his arm sends a rip of pain down to his elbow. He mutters a quiet complaint to himself and smiles thankfully, if weakly, at Gyro when he returns to his side and hands him a cup of hot chocolate.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Fenton says. He sits up, pressing back with the balls of his feet and tries to ignore the clinking sound of the cuff around his ankle. The physical reminder that Gyro hadn’t even trusted him to be alone for five minutes when he had gone to fetch them drinks from the breakroom. “Thank you for the cocoa.”

“Hmph,” the older man brushes off the gratitude, but Fenton is glad when he sits directly beside him instead of moving his chair a half dozen feet away as he had previously. “You never told me you had low blood sugar.”

“I don’t…I didn’t,” Fenton fumbles to explain the dizzy spell that had almost sent him falling to the ground when he had stood up just a few minutes ago. Gyro had caught him and helped him to the chair, which is more than Fenton could have asked from him after his actions earlier that day. “I think it was just the blood loss on top of all the stress. I’m fine, really.”

“Yeah, well, sit there and finish your drink, just in case.”

Gyro is sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his own drink between dangling fingertips. He reaches up one hand and squeezes the skin right above his beak between his thumb and index finger, pressing his glasses up in the process. He appears nearly dead on his feet and Fenton can’t blame him; it’s been a long day for both of them. There is something almost disturbing about seeing the professor drinking hot chocolate, Fenton is so used to him nursing mug after mug of coffee throughout the day. There’s something almost…childlike about this. It’s hard to imagine Gyro as ever having been a child. It’s hard to imagine Gyro ever being carefree and whimsical.

Something large swims by the nearest window, startling Fenton. A primal terror turns in his belly. Waterfowl instinct – fear that which is dark and lurking below. It might have been a dolphin or a sea lion or a sunfish. Just a black shadow in the sea, somehow a hundred times foreboding than it would have been in the light.

“Why is your lab underwater anyway?” Fenton asks, repressing the shudder that wants to crawl down his spine. “Did you used to have a special interest in marine science?”

“Hmm?” Gyro seems to have been lost in his own thoughts. He shakes his head at the question. He moves his hand, and his glasses fall back into place. He sits up straight then, cracking his back as he does so with a pleasant sigh. “No, no. I just like the water. It calms me. And nobody was using this space. The university used to have a marine biology department, years ago. Back before I attended, even. They closed it when Tseyirei Bay University opened in the 70s and the state concentrated the resources on the nature reserve down there. When I was hired on, they were going to set me up in one of the new buildings on campus, but I requested the old marine lab instead. It’s quieter than being right on campus. And sometimes my head feels too full of thoughts, you see, and when I get like that it helps to just be able to stop and watch the currents. It clears my head.”

Gyro is staring at the water and Fenton is staring at Gyro. Just looking at him like this, his mentor’s guard down, Fenton can see the difference unfolding right before his eyes. It’s like watching some of the stress just draining from the man’s body, sinking through the bottom of his feet and just disappearing into the floor. It almost makes Fenton appreciate the ocean more, scary sea monsters and all. There’s something deeply romantic behind the idea of somebody as calculated and methodical as Gyro Gearloose finding comfort in the vastness of the ocean.

“I can see that,” Fenton says quietly. “We all came from the ocean, in the beginning.”

They continue their drinks in silence, but it is not as uncomfortable as it could have been. They’re both emotionally and physically worn down. Their morning coffees and afternoon cocktails long out of their systems. Fenton finishes his drink first and climbs tiredly to his feet, announcing that he’s okay to drive. Even though his arm is still aching something fierce and he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Drive?”

“Home,” Fenton clarifies. He knows that Gyro wouldn’t want him going anywhere without people, any place that he could be a danger to others. He has no plans to go anywhere besides his own bed, anyway. “I’m ready to go home.”

Gyro just blinks up at him, his head tilted to one side as if he is studying the duck in front of him. His eyes are so white they almost glow against the darkness of the rest of the lab behind him.

“You can’t be serious. You think I’d let you out of my sight like this?”

“What?” Fenton asks, blankly.

“You’ve had the implant in for less than a half-hour,” Gyro balks. “I’m guessing we have weeks to wait before you’re back at your normal hormone levels. If not months.”

Fenton doesn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him that Gyro wouldn’t be fine allowing him to just pull on his coat and walk out the door, a free man. Whether or not the handcuffs are overkill is up for debate. They’re a humiliating accessory and Fenton is far from arousal at this point – he’s exhausted, his arm is aching, there’s a lump the size of a ping pong ball under the feathers on his head. Yet he did try to assault Gyro earlier today so he can understand the argument for them. But Fenton isn’t a danger to anybody else. Gyro is the only person he has had overt sexual fantasies about.

However, Gyro doesn’t know that.

He considers telling him that, but it’s too embarrassing. And it might not even make a difference. Maybe it’s not just about Gyro’s fear for his own well-being or that of the general public’s. Maybe he thinks that Fenton might make a run for if it if he were free and still raging with natural hormones. Escape to the border or hop a plane to Spain or something.

“I have a spare room,” he tells Fenton. “I’ll have to lock you in, but it has a half-bathroom attached, I assure you that you’ll be comfortable.”

“You’re going to keep an eye on me for months?” Fenton asks, arching an eyebrow, skeptically.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gyro scoffs. He stands and rests a heavy hand on Fenton’s shoulder. “Sure, your hormone levels won’t be fully regulated for a while, but I’m sure you’ll be at manageable numbers within a week or two.”

“It’s illegal for a drake to sleep anywhere besides in the presence of another drake,” Fenton reminds him. His shoulder feels warm beneath the touch. “It’s illegal for me to spend the night at your place.”

“It’s also illegal to remove your implant,” Gyro says placidly. “Don’t worry about it, I can call in favors if I need to. Is there anything you need to grab from your car?”

He makes him sit in the backseat again, his ankle chained to the little bar beneath the seat. Fenton leans his temple against the window, watching the lights pass in a blur. Friday night. They pass restaurants with their lights glowing, people laughing and drinking inside. A woman in a short red dress trying to hail a cab. There’s a line outside the movie theatre for some new release. Fenton sighs. He should be in St. Canard. Perhaps with Launchpad on top of him, inside him, making every nerve in his body stand on end. At the very least they might have been finished by now and the larger duck would have his heavy arms around him, holding him as he snoozed against his back, waiting for Drake to return from his last show of the week.

It occurs to Fenton that he’ll probably never experience those sensations again. Maybe, if he asked, Launchpad would still snuggle him, but it wouldn’t be the same. And sex with Launchpad, or Drake for that matter, is all but off the table now. He could still have intercourse with them in the future if he was on the receiving end, but would he even want to? Would the memory of sex be enough to egg him on? He doubts it. He knows that decreased libido is a problem for many people, not just male ducks, and that with it comes all but complete disinterest.

How will he even see sex in a month’s time?

Maybe it’ll be like looking back at some childish fad from his pre-teen years. Something to cringe at and laugh off. Something that he’ll shrug about and say, offhandedly, “I don’t know what I saw in it, honestly.”

He doesn’t want it to be like that. It’s not even just the orgasm part. It’s the build-up, how vulnerable he felt during it, how close he felt to both Drake and Launchpad afterward. It’s how he would just stare at Gyro sometime, at the angle of his jaw or the way the muscles on his forearms just bulged that certain way, and how it would make him want to cry.

Sort of how he wants to cry now.

He needs to do this though. He needs to make himself safe for people in his life like Gyro. Even if it means missing out on some things.

Gyro owns his own condo on the eleventh floor of a towering building that seems to be made entirely of glass. It overlooks the bay, and, from the living room, Fenton can see the lights of St. Canard glowing on the water only ten miles away. So close yet so far. He wonders as he sets his hand against the glass, what Gyro sees when he sees that city. A sin-filled cesspool or a thriving metropolis?

Probably not freedom. Fenton swallows in his throat, feeling like a canary stuck in a cage.

A modern, beautifully decorated cage. Fenton had always imagined Gyro living in an over-crowded house stuffed floor to ceiling with various projects and gadgets. Resembling in his mind, for some reason, something like Pee Wee Herman’s house from _Pee Wee’s Big Adventure_. A secondary workplace where he could concentrate on his own private projects, not caring about the mess.

Yet his home is uncluttered and spotless. It is large, though smaller than the house Fenton had envisioned, with an open plan space that feels exposing with the entire wall of windows that make up one side of the living room. The hardwood floors and sparse, angular furniture give the entire place an unwelcoming cold feeling. The various black ceramic vases and metal sculptures meticulously placed around the area do little to dispel that feeling.

At least Gyro was kind enough to allow him to take the elevator up without the cuffs. He sets them on a black wooden accent table by the door and walks towards the open kitchen to the side. Awkwardly, Fenton follows himself, taking a seat on the opposite side of the island that separates the kitchen from a small dining area.

“I’d offer you a drink,” Gyro apologizes, his voice hollow and echoing from the kitchen area. “But I don’t think that’s the best idea. I have some bottled water if you’d like one?”

“That’d be nice,” Fenton accepts the offering. He half-expects it to be Fiji water or something fancy like that but it’s the same store brand stuff his mother always used to buy growing up. There’s something strangely comforting about that fact.

It hadn’t even occurred to Fenton that neither of them had eaten since lunch, and he realizes he forgot the Sichuan leftovers in the work fridge. His stomach growls, suddenly, when he catches the whiff of the leftover lasagna Gyro had popped into the microwave.

“It’s not fancy but I figured I should feed you something.”

“No, it’s fine, perfect, even.”

“You don’t need to grovel.”

Once they’re done eating, Gyro shows him to the room. It’s a guestroom, the bed made up as if this were some high scale hotel and not somebody’s personal home. The little half bathroom attached only houses a toilet and a sink but there’s a toothbrush still available in its packaging and a small bubblegum flavored toothpaste with only the smallest indent in the middle.

“I would have changed the sheets if I knew I would be having somebody,” Gyro apologizes, turning down the covers for him as if he was housekeeping. “They’re clean. It’s just been sitting for a while so they might be a bit stale.”

“I’m surprised you have a guestroom,” Fenton says. He sits on the edge of the bed and feels it sink beneath him. It’s a soft bed. Nicer than his own. With a thick, plush duvet. “I thought you’d use this as a home office or something.”

“I only use my laptop at home,” Gyro explains. He has his arms folded across his chest as if he’s uncomfortable being alone in Fenton’s presence right now. Fenton looks down at the floor, attempting to make himself appear smaller, less threatening. “I prefer to leave my work at work so I have no need for anything more advanced than a decent gaming laptop. No, I keep this one ready for when my sister and nephew visit.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I was not born from a pod, despite the rumors. And I don’t sleep in one, either. I’m going to bed. I’ll be locking you in for the night but I’ll have my phone on the nightstand if you have some sort of emergency. Do you need anything?”

Fenton shakes his head. If he’s going to be staying here for a few days he’ll need to ask to visit his apartment tomorrow, he’ll need his laptop and school books as well as some essentials – clothes, a stuffed animal, his special waterfowl shampoo. He’s sure Gyro has shampoo, but chicken shampoo is usually too drying for his own feathers. For now, though, he just wants to go to bed.

“Try to get some sleep,” Gyro says before he closes the door. “I know this isn’t an easy situation, for either of us. But I think a good night’s sleep will be good for both of us.”

Fenton brushes his teeth and removes his tie. Otherwise, there isn’t much he can do about his clothing, so he crawls in between the sheets in just his work shirt. The sheets are cool, just slightly musty smelling like Gyro had warned. He’ll hang the duvet up tomorrow to air out for a bit. The light on the bedside table is a touch light. He contemplates leaving it on the dim setting, but when he turns it off to check the darkness of the room and realizes the lights from across the bay are washing through his window from that far of a distance, he settles for the lamp off option.

As he stares out the full-length glass at the city and contemplates his friends and what they must be doing without him, Fenton thinks it will probably be a very long time before he falls asleep.

He’s out within ten minutes.

* * *

Gyro lets him out of the room shortly after seven in the morning. The chicken’s normally impeccably styled hair is a semi-flattened tangled mess on top of his head and his glasses are nowhere to be seen. He’s wearing only a robe and, surprisingly, a pair of fluffy blue slippers.

“You can use the shower first,” he informs Fenton, eyes slit against the morning light washing in through the half-drawn curtains. “Coffee’s brewing, I’m going to make some breakfast. You don’t eat Kosher, do you?”

“Uh, no?” Fenton half-asks. He’s still in bed, rubbing at his eyes in confusion. How is it morning already?

“I’m making bacon,” Gyro clarifies, leaning against the doorframe. “I always make bacon on Saturdays. It’s part of my routine.”

“Bacon sounds good.”

He had assumed that Gyro would have showered first, keeping him locked up in his room until he was finished getting ready. Maybe he’s the type of cook that scatters ingredients all over himself like in one of those cutesy moe animes. Either way, Fenton is in need of the toilet. Covering the problem with his hands, he wonders if it would be weird to use the toilet in his bathroom before going to the other one to shower. Deciding that the action would come off as suspicious, he hurries to the larger bathroom down the hallway. Unfortunately, his morning hardon is stubborn this morning and refuses to go down even after using it.

“Well, I suppose that’s one thing I won’t miss,” Fenton considers quietly to himself, staring at the appendage greeting him so brazenly this morning as if it weren’t making itself at home in his boss’ condo.

For several minutes, he considers whether or not jerking off in the shower would be bad manners. The question would be iffy in normal circumstances, but considering what he had almost done last night…

The shower itself is magnificent. The type of shower that Fenton would have called a “rich person shower” growing up. No bathtub, it’s pentagon-shaped with three showerheads set in the deep gray marble walls. His own pathetic shower/tub combo in his apartment seems like an ancient relic in comparison. But there are so many dials and knobs and buttons that Fenton loses track of time playing with them and barely has time to enjoy himself. One of them changes the temperature, another the water flow. He presses one button and suddenly blue lights engulf the stall, and another floods the chamber with classical music. He’s in the middle of his own rave party with three different pulse speeds, blasting out Chopin, as red, green, and blue lights flash every half second when there comes a pounding on the door.

“Don’t use up all the hot water!”

At least his erection disappeared without him noticing.

“I like your shower,” he tells Gyro when he enters the kitchen still wearing yesterday’s clothes. The same shirt he slept in.

“I’m sure you do,” the older man smirks, obviously proud of it. He turns towards him, a spatula in hand. He’s still wearing the robe but thankfully he’s put his glasses on. “I designed it myself.”

Of course, it’s one of his inventions. Fenton wouldn’t have assumed otherwise. Still, it seems unusually indulgent. He never would have assumed that Gyro would partake in such luxuries. Gyro had always seemed like a rather spartan individual. Yet Fenton never would have imagined him living in a condo like this either.

“How’d you like the warming toilet seat?” Gyro asked. “It’s from Japan. Picked it up at a convention a few years ago.”

Warming toilet? Fenton almost regrets not sitting on it now. At least he should have a second chance later. Fenton finds two simple black placemats set out with immaculate, square white plates on top. He takes the one without the morning paper sitting beside it.

As he had promised, Gyro has prepared bacon for breakfast. But it’s only a side to go along with the pancakes and fresh fruit he hands out over the table. It all smells delicious and Fenton is ready to dig in, but he waits for the other man to join him at the table. His mother had taught him to always wait until everyone is seated. He isn’t a heathen.

But Gyro doesn’t join him immediately. Instead, he goes to a cupboard near the sink and pulls down a number of pill bottles. Fenton watches him open each one in turn, shaking one or two pills into his palm, then closing them again. He puts the bottles all away and only then sits down at the table across from him. The pills are deposited into a neat little pile at the corner of his placemat. When Fenton looks up towards his mentor, he realizes that he’s been caught watching him and averts his eyes.

There are seven pills in all.

The chicken reaches for the knife sitting beside his plate and leans over to cut a sliver of butter from the stick he had laid out between them.

“Fenton, I have a story to tell you,” Gyro begins, his eyes firmly at the task at hand. He spreads the butter as meticulously across his pancakes as if he were frosting a birthday cake. “But before I begin, you have to promise me to just be quiet and listen. Can you do that?”

“I, yes,” Fenton nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. And eat your bacon, it’s getting cold,” Gyro scolds, setting down the fork. They both reach for their bacon at the same time though Gyro doesn’t bring his to his mouth as Fenton does. “When I was eighteen, I met this guy at my university’s robotics club. Let’s call him…Charlie. That’s not his real name but you don’t have any issue with that name, do you?”

Fenton shakes his head, mouth full of bacon.

“Okay,” Gyro continues, waving his own piece of bacon around as if it were a pointer. “So, this guy, Charlie. He was a couple of years older than me. Not quite as smart as me, maybe, but he was cute and exceptionally funny, and I fell hard for him. I never would have imagined he was gay, the 90s was a different time, so when he asked me out, I was over the moon. He ended up being my first boyfriend.”

Gyro pauses then, taking a moment to eat the piece of bacon he was waving around. Then he reaches for his coffee to take a sip. Reflexively, Fenton reaches for the mug at his own elbow, surprised to find it full of tea. Black tea, but still. He never would have guessed that Gyro would have gone out of the way to make him tea. He takes a sip but then just holds it close with both hands, inhaling the familiar smell of bergamot.

“Instead of moving into the dorms my sophomore year, we got a place together,” Gyro goes on. “We couldn’t afford much, just this studio apartment about two blocks from campus. It was always a mess. Between the two of us the place was just overflowing with textbooks, dirty laundry, and empty pizza boxes. The toilet overflowed half the time and our microwave caught fire more than once. But it didn’t matter because we were in love. You know that feeling?”

Another pause, but this time he seems to be waiting for a response. Even though he had told Fenton to be quiet.

“Uh, kind of,” he just says, shrugging listlessly, because he can’t say he knows that exact feeling. He has never actually been with somebody he loved like that. He’s briefly dated people he thought he loved at the time, in his teen years or early twenties, but looking back on it all through a different lens…well. It’s simply not the same. Besides, he’s never lived with anybody besides his mother. Drakes aren’t allowed to live with anybody besides other drakes without being married.

“So, this day came. It was a Friday, and I didn’t have classes on Friday even though he did.” Gyro either didn’t hear or chooses to ignore Fenton’s feeble response. “I had decided to surprise him with a romantic dinner for two. I made a pot roast and baked a cake. I even walked down to the dollar store and bought some fake rose petals and all these tea candles. Gardenia scented. I’m talking over a hundred of them. I lit them up and created this pathway to the bed with them and everything. The apartment reeked of that fake floral scent. It was embarrassingly romantic. Disgusting, really.”

“It sounds sweet,” Fenton smiles encouragingly, but Gyro just rolls his eyes at the comment. “I’m sorry. Go on. What happened?”

“He was late coming home from class,” Gyro says. He stops there, taking a deep breath and letting it slowly out. Fenton gets the sense that he doesn’t want to continue with this story. “And…I began to expect the worse. This little voice in my head, it told me that he was off sleeping with this kid he had been tutoring. This barely legal high school senior. I just became convinced he was cheating on me and I…I grabbed a bunch of the candles and threw them on the bed. It…caught fire. The neighbors called the fire department. He, Charlie, he showed up and dragged me out before they arrived and I was so angry, I kept hitting him and screaming at him and, well. He broke up with me, obviously.”

“I’m sorry,” Fenton says reflexively, not thinking. Coughing, he quickly reaches for his mug again, looking down at the liquid as he sipped from it.

“I destroyed the most important relationship of my life over nothing,” Gyro sighs. There’s a small clattering sound of a fork being laid across the plate. “He had been fifteen minutes late. _Fifteen_. He had received notice that one of his papers had been accepted for publication in this journal he had applied to, and he had wanted to celebrate so he had stopped to pick up some wine. That was all it was. He just wanted to come home and celebrate his acceptance letter with me.”

Setting the mug down, Fenton folds his own hands in his lap, just looking at the man across from him. Gyro doesn’t meet his eyes. He has his hands out in front of him and is playing with his fingers, watching them as he does so. Fenton makes a small, quick hum of acknowledgment, but otherwise keeps his promise not to interrupt. He wouldn’t know what to say even if Gyro had asked him to speak. How do you reply to something like that? Surprisingly the story apparently isn’t over as Gyro continues.

“I spent the last bit of money I had on a motel room. Charlie had left the bottle of wine behind. Or rather, he had thrown it away after screaming at me for twenty minutes. I dug it out of this bush he had flung it into and took it along with me,” Gyro’s voice has gone so soft now that Fenton has to lean forward to hear him properly. Not quite whispering, but nearly. “I went into my room after the fire was out to get a few of my belongings and I, I emptied all the drugs out of the medicine cabinet. Once I was in the hotel room, I washed them down with the full bottle of wine, and I just…went to sleep. For what I had assumed was the last time.”

“How…”

“The cops,” Gyro laughs suddenly, bitterly. He eyes are watering despite himself and he wipes at them almost aggressively. “They just happened to be doing a sting at the motel I had decided to kill myself in. Ended up being some seedy prostitution den run by a couple of shady drug dealers. The cops who found me thought I was just another junkie. Anyway, they pumped my stomach, made sure I didn’t die, and sent me to the mental hospital a few days later. Only took them a week to slap the bipolar label on me. Well, the doctor was a bit behind the times, he preferred to still refer to his patients as ‘manic depressive’ and nobody was going to tell an old man in late seventies to change his ways.”

“So, the, uh,” Fenton says, pointing at the pills on the side. Gyro nods, carefully reaching down to pluck a few of them off the table. He holds them up for Fenton to see.

“This one,” he says, shaking his left hand, “Is an antidepressant. This one is a mood stabilizer. They were both developed and perfected by scientists inside a lab. Without either of them, I would not be able to function on a day to day basis, and I’d most likely not even be alive today.”

With that statement, Gyro tosses both pills in his mouth and downs them with a gulp of water from his untouched glass to the side. He sets the glass back down with a sturdy thud.

“You understand what I’m trying to say to you, don’t you?” Gyro asks.

“I think so,” Fenton nods just the barest hint. “You think that medicine makes us better people.”

“No,” Gyro corrects him quickly. “Not at all. Medicine can’t make us be anything we aren’t already. If I took a steroid it won’t give me all new muscles, it would just grow the ones I already have. All medicine can do is make the best parts of ourselves stand out and maybe repress some of the worst parts. My medication doesn’t make me who I am, it allows me to be who I already was inside. I choose to take my medication; I choose who I want to be.”

“Alright,” Fenton agrees. “I get what you’re saying. But I wasn’t planning on trying to remove it again if you were worried about that. I told you, I want to be back on the hormones.”

“It…wasn’t just that,” Gyro frowns. He lets out of a little puff of air. “It’s also, I wanted you to see that I’m not perfect either. I’ve done bad things too. And like you, I can’t even say I wasn’t myself at the time, because I was entirely myself when I set that bed on fire. And yes, I have been known to have gone off my meds once or twice, foolishly thinking I had gotten ‘better’ and didn’t need them any longer. Luckily, I had people in my life who came to me and made me see what was happening before things went too far each time. I want to be that person for you now. I’m not going to lie and say I entirely forgive you right now after, after what you tried to do to me. But I don’t hate you and I do want to help you. I hope you can understand that.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” Fenton agrees, giving him a timid smile. “And I, um. I appreciate it. You. For everything.”

“Alright now let’s just pretend we never had this discussion,” the other man gripes. “Ugh, my pancakes are cold. What a waste of a perfectly good breakfast.”

“Before we agree to never talk about this again, can I just ask about the others?” Fenton asks, pointing at the pile of remaining pills on the table. “If you’re comfortable with the question, I mean.”

“Oh, those,” Gyro rolls his eyes. He grabs up the rest of the pills and jiggles them in the palm of his hands as if they were spare change. “Flaxseed oil, glucosamine, and a targeted multivitamin for my particular needs. I’m not a spring chicken, excuse the pun.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a question on whether the next chapter should be Fenton's POV or Gyro's POV and people seemed to like this fic sticking to Fenton's POV so that's what I will be doing. That said, this chapter was mostly finished yesterday.

To be honest, Fenton probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Gyro can cook. Not only that, he can cook _well_. But why wouldn’t he? Isn’t cooking merely a science? And Gyro Gearloose is perhaps the most highly acclaimed scientific mind of his generation. Of course, Fenton is also a scientist, or so his multiple degrees claim, and he can barely heat up a can of spaghetti. Not that he’s had much experience in the kitchen; his own stove has been broken since he moved into the apartment.

“I’ll clean since you cooked,” he volunteers, already gathering their sticky plates from the table.

Gyro grunts out some vague affirmation and leaves him to his task. Fenton watches his exit. The open plan nature of the condo provides a wide, unobstructed view of the living room as the older man walks to the black leather sectional and plops down on the edge closest to the kitchen. He grabs a pad of yellow paper lying on the coffee table before and even from here Fenton can see the scribble of mathematical equations crowding the page. He tears off the top sheet from the pad, crumples it, and tosses it in a small, wire waste paper basket filled with similarly shaped balls of yellow paper.

There aren’t really that many dishes. More than Fenton would have had thought necessary for a small meal between two individuals, but still, not that many. Besides the plates and cutlery, there are a handful of different pans and spatulas as well as a large measuring cup gooey with leftover pancake dough. As he scrubs at the dirty pans, he glances up to watch Gyro in the other room. It’s almost like examining an animal in its own habitat, seeing him here in his living room on a quiet Saturday morning wearing only a robe and a pair of slippers. Something vaguely voyeuristic about it all.

His slippers seem smaller than his normal shoes. Just as wide, but shorter. Fenton has heard that it can be difficult for chickens to buy shoes given the shape of their feet. Or at least, shoes they find stylish. It must be strange having toes instead of pads. 

Gyro looks up at him and Fenton looks away quickly. He rinses off the last pan and sets it in the drainer.

“You could have used the dishwasher,” Gyro gripes at him when he approaches. “It would have been quicker.”

“I would have had to clean off all the pots anyway,” Fenton says, shrugging. His hands are still damp.

“I designed the dishwasher,” Gyro clarifies, making it clear to Fenton that said dishwasher is probably extremely efficient and extremely dangerous. “You don’t need to rinse anything.”

Fenton smiles, apologizes, and says he’ll keep that in mind for the future. Then he just stands at the end of the couch, his hands clasped behind him, swaying light on his feet. He has no idea what he is supposed to do with the rest of the day or if he’s even allowed to sit down.

“Over there,” Gyro waves to the empty section of the sofa that is angled perpendicular to the area he has claimed for himself. The particular cushion the rooster is sitting on seems slightly more run-down than the rest of the sectional, the leather itself smoother, almost shiny. It must be his designated “spot” for when he’s in the living room though Fenton has trouble imagining him just curled up on the couch watching television like a normal person. He just has trouble imagining him ever not working. “Rule number one, you are not to sit directly beside me if it can be helped. Or stand too close to me, for that matter. If you lose control again, I would prefer some distance between us so that I have time to react.”

“There are rules?” Fenton asks. He walks over to the designated side of the couch and sits carefully at the end furthest from the other man. The cushion is cold and firm beneath him as if nobody has ever sat on this side of the sofa in its existence. Fenton wonders how old the furniture in the condo is. Gyro’s area seems too worn to be brand new unless he’s just plopped himself down there and never moved all weekend, every weekend, for the last few months. The polished black wooden legs are so tall that when Fenton scoots back to lean against the cushions, his feet dangle several inches from the floor.

“Yes, there are rules,” Gyro confirms. He scratches out something on the notepad with a pen. Fenton can’t see the text from where he is sitting, but he recognizes the sound of pen against paper and how it differentiates from actual writing. “I think it is best for the both of us if we know and agree on these rules beforehand. Just so we don’t have any awkward encounters moving forward.”

“Agree on the rules?” Fenton asks, hopefully. He folds a leg under himself and sits forward eagerly. Perhaps this official list of rules will include a “no handcuffs” clause. His skin feels bruised, the tissue swollen, from the metal manacles biting into him yesterday. He hadn’t been fighting against them but even having Gyro tugging him along by them for such a short time, like a disobedient dog, had left the delicate bones of his wrists aching. “So I get a say in them?”

“I will take your concerns into consideration,” Gyro informs him, voice terse. Fenton recognizes that particular tone, how couldn’t he after working under the man for so many months? It’s a no-nonsense voice, his stern boss voice, and Fenton understands that even if Gyro allows him to request certain modifications, he will not allow any dispute. “But ultimately it is my decision.”

“Alright,” Fenton agrees. He is not exactly jumping for joy over this entire situation, but he is genuinely grateful that Gyro is even willing to allow him to share his thoughts. The other man is in no way indebted to him and he would be fully within his rights to have just turned him over to the cops after what happened yesterday. Instead, he’s here with Fenton, willing to sacrifice what little free time he has to himself instead of helping him fix his own stupid mistakes.

“For now, I’m going to leave you unchained,” the chicken says, waving the end of the pen at him. “Though I will warn you ahead of time, I have a small, battery-sized taser in my pocket, so keep that in mind before trying to jump me again. It will work through cloth so don’t think I can’t zap you even if I don’t manage to get it out.”

Fenton nods solemnly. This is Gyro’s barely-concealed manner of asking him to demonstrate that he can be trustworthy. Fenton wants to prove to him that his faith in him isn’t baseless. He’ll make sure that his mentor never has need to use that taser.

They go over the rest of the rules rather quickly, Gyro scratching out and editing any that he had jotted down while Fenton had been cleaning. He explains each of them as he compiles the amended versions into a revised list on a fresh sheet of paper, asking after he states each new rule whether Fenton has any objection. They’re strict, at times confusing, but not unreasonable. 

Fenton is not allowed out of his sight unless his boss knows he is in a secure area – the bathroom, the bedroom, the breakroom at work. Fenton is not to prepare any food unless Gyro is nearby to observe. He is not to walk behind Gyro. He is not to play music loudly in his room. He is not to drink alcohol. He is not to enter Gyro’s bedroom unless given explicit permission. He is not allowed to interact in person with anybody besides Gyro for at least the next seven days, except while in class, which Gyro will be driving him to.

“I don’t want you to waste your time driving me around,” Fenton objects to this last part. “I promise I’ll drive right there and right back. You know my schedule; you’ll know if I’m dallying.”

“You may have forgotten this fact, but I am a professor at your school,” Gyro lifts his eyebrows at him from behind the notebook, looking mildly put off. “Do you think I don’t have my own things to do on campus while you’re in class? If I have to work around your schedule, for the time being, I may find it difficult to find time to make it to my office.”

“Oh, oh right,” Fenton smiles sheepishly. He picks at a small loose string on the sofa’s arm. Gyro is just so unprofessor-like, it’s easy to forget sometimes that he has responsibilities at the school. He wonders what it would be like to be an actual student in one of his classes, would he be this uncompromising going over the syllabus? “Sorry, sir, of course, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Cut the ‘sir’ crap,” Gyro grumbles. “Now hand over your phone. Next rule, you are not allowed direct access to your phone until I have deemed you responsible enough for resumed ownership.”

“My phone?” Fenton balks. He sits up straighter in his seat, pulling his leg tighter beneath him. “I need to be able to contact M’ma. What if there is some sort of emergency and she needs to get hold of me?”

Gyro makes an annoyed muttering sound under his breath. He leans to the side and pulls open the drawer to the side table directly beside him. Though the man’s blocking the view with his body, Fenton hears what sounds like papers and cords rustling. Gyro sits up, holding what appears to be a bulky looking tablet with an orange sponge-like case in one hand.

“You can use this,” the older man says, tossing the tablet onto the couch beside Fenton. “I’ll download an app onto your phone that forwards calls and texts specifically from your mother and only your mother. You’ll be able to talk using headphones. You know the lab’s Wi-Fi information. I’m assuming you have the login information for school?”

“Is this a kid’s tablet?” Fenton asks, frowning as he turns the object around in his hands. It’s about eight by five inches, thick, presumably shatter resistant. Suitable for a child, maybe, but Gyro can’t be serious. He’d die of humiliation carrying this thing around campus. It’s so large and colorful.

“Yes,” Gyro confirms, nodding as if he doesn’t see the problem with a man in his mid-twenties carrying around what is essentially a child’s toy. “My nephew plays on it when he visits. You can use it to do other things as well, checking the news, reading, et cetera. It has parental controls against adult sites, and I can track your activity on it. I’m not going to be giving you my condo’s Wi-Fi information for your laptop, so you’ll probably need to use it to submit any homework assignments as well.”

“A kid’s tablet,” he mutters, not quite angry but he does nothing to keep the clear annoyance from his voice. “What do you think I’d get up to online that needs to be monitored?”

Gyro makes an indignant squawking noise and folds back the page he’s been writing on much more aggressively than needed for a simple piece of paper.

“I would prefer not to provide you access to certain…stimulating websites that could interfere with your self-control,” he says shortly. “Speaking of which, next rule: no pornography. No sexting or flirting with people you know or with strangers online. No erotic fiction. The less temptation you are presented with, the better.”

No sex. Not even in his own mind. Gyro wants him sexless. A harmless, neutered, cowering drake like any other out on the street. This is Fenton’s initial thought at the older man’s words, and he recoils at the idea of it, a wave of sudden righteous anger burning in his chest. What right does Gyro, does anybody, have to tell him what to do with his own body? With his own free time? Isn’t that a basic right, allowing yourself to look at some dirty pictures and jerk off after a hard day on the job? His hands clench into fists on his lap. He’s nearly shaking with rage. He takes several long, deep breaths, releasing them slowly. His head spins and some of the anger fades.

It’s the hormones, he forces himself to admit. He never used to be overtaken by this sort of fury before. It’s his body trying to fight against his brain, and he can’t let his body win. He thinks about what Gyro had said over breakfast. He can choose to be the best part of himself. He can choose not to be angry. Gyro doesn’t want to control him; he doesn’t want him neutered for the fun of it. He wants him to be safe. Not just for the sake of others but so that he can stay a free, functioning member of society. The intrusive thoughts aren’t him. Not the part of him he is choosing to be. Gyro is doing this _for_ him, not _to_ him.

“You’re clenching your fists,” Gyro observes quietly. There’s a tightness in his voice that cuts through Fenton easier than the scalpel had cut through his arm last night. And Fenton hates to admit he recognizes that tightness. Fear. There is fear in Gyro’s voice, a slight warble in his words. He is afraid of Fenton though he is trying his best to hide it from him and Fenton both loves him and hates him for that. He can do this, he will do this, if for no other reason than to never hear that fear again in his voice. “Is there something you need to say?”

“No, I don’t need-” Fenton begins. He forces himself to unclench his first. He reaches up to wipe at the angry tears welling at the corner of his eyes. “Yes, actually. I…get angry sometimes. Really angry. Furious, even. In ways I never did before and I’m just, I don’t know how to deal with it sometimes. I started working out recently when I get like this, to tire myself out. I don’t like being angry, I try my best to be a nice person, but sometimes everything is just so…unfair.”

“It is,” Gyro agrees, sympathetically. The nasal draw of his voice is unusually warm. “You’re absolutely correct, it is unfair. You didn’t choose to be born a drake anymore than I chose to be born a rooster. But we have to play the hands we’ve been dealt. I think communication is key here to getting you through these next few weeks. I want you to communicate with me. I want you to be completely honest with me. If you’re having abnormal feelings, then tell me. I don’t mean just anger either, if you’re feeling unusually sad or having a manic episode or if you’re, if you’re aroused. Let me know. We’ll figure out ways to deal with it. Especially the, um, arousal part. I know it might be embarrassing to admit those feelings, but we need to nip it in the bud before you lose control. Don’t let it fester and take over.”

Fenton nearly dies of embarrassment on the spot. Hearing Gyro Gearloose saying the word “arousal” is about as embarrassing as an elementary school sex-ed class. There’s something vaguely naughty about it that leaves Fenton feeling slightly breathless.

“Alright,” Fenton agrees, voice faltering, “I promise I’ll tell you if I feel like I’m losing control.”

“No,” Gyro objects, the severity of his voice makes the feathers on Fenton’s arms stand up. “Don’t wait until it gets that far. If you’re having any sexual thoughts whatsoever I want to know. Those are the kind of thoughts that are the most dangerous for my own, personal safety. Tell me immediately.”

Immediately? Like, immediately immediately? 

This is going to be extremely difficult. Worse than Fenton had thought, in fact. For weeks now his body, his mind even, has been reacting to the smallest stimuli. Less than a week ago he had passed somebody on the street wearing the same cologne as Drake’s and had immediately rushed into a Starduck’s bathroom to hide his erection. Another time he had ended up masturbating, again, in the work bathroom after hearing Gyro sigh in a way very reminiscent to how Launchpad sighs after orgasming. And now he’s supposed to be stuck alone in a moderately small condo with his boss, the epicenter of his sexual development, for possibly weeks?

Things are going to get worse before they get better, Fenton just knows it.

At least Gyro is considerate enough to kindly ask Fenton to wait inside the bedroom while he showers. He had assumed he would just grab him and shove him inside if he wanted him locked away for a bit. Despite everything, Gyro is treating him like a person, not a predator.

“I’ll be quick about it,” the older man promises, sounding genuinely apologetic about the situation as he leans against the doorframe. “Ten minutes, tops. Then we can go pick up your stuff.”

“It’s fine,” Fenton says, sitting at the edge of the bed. He feels weird sitting there as Gyro stares at him and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he tucks them between his knees. “Don’t rush on my account. I’m fine in here. It’s a nice room. And I have the tablet to keep me entertained.”

“Make a list of things you need at your apartment,” Gyro suggests helpfully. “So that you don’t forget anything.”

The sound of the door locking behind him is reminiscent of the deadbolts on a prison cell.

Fenton continues to sit on the edge of the bed for a long minute, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him as the silence sets in. He’s not used to this kind of silence. The walls of his own apartment are paper-thin and even if nobody else is home in the rooms surrounding his own, he can usually hear the cars outside. Even if the walls of the condo weren’t so well-insulated, Fenton isn’t sure if you’d be able to hear the cars from this high up. The silence makes him feel utterly alone. Part of him just wants to sit here and wallow in his misery. Sometimes it’s difficult being left alone with your thoughts when there are so many of them.

“This isn’t that bad,” he says aloud to himself. He forces himself to stand up and walk over to the full-length window. If he can see other people out there, walking around, driving, living, maybe he won’t feel so isolated. But the cars are so small down there. And he can hardly catch a glimpse of St. Canard at this hour. The morning fog hangs over the bay and without the bright lights standing out from the darkness everything seems to have taken on various shades of gray. The gray of the water, the gray of the sky, and the gray of the city seem to just meld together.

He wonders if Drake has tried to contact him. Probably. He has to be worried about him after what happened last night. It feels wrong not to check in with him, at least let him know that everything is fine and he hasn’t been arrested or fired. If he asked, explained that he just wanted to reassure Drake he was okay, maybe Gyro would let him send him a couple of texts. He could even dictate the text to him, just so that Gyro was sure he wasn’t sneaking some coded message.

Fenton doesn’t think that Gyro is Drake’s biggest fan right now, however.

If he weren’t feeling so mentally drained, Fenton would have gone with Gyro’s idea of making a list of things he needs to pick up at his place. But his mind feels as foggy as the bay. He lingers at the window instead, watching the boats move on the water, until he hears the lock once again behind him. He turns, ready to escape this building for a couple of hours, and his eyes widen in surprise.

Gyro Gearloose is dressed _casually_. At least, what passes as casual for Gyro Gearloose. Fenton can’t imagine him bumming around his house in a band t-shirt or something along those lines, but he’s only wearing a button-down olive-green plaid shirt and his trademark hat. The sleeves are rolled up his forearms and the cut, as would be expected for a perfectionist like his boss, is slim and flattering. But it’s almost foreign to see him like this. No bowtie, no vest, no shoes. No…pants.

His tail feathers are magnificent. Shining black like satin, a good two inches in width and as long as Gyro’s arm. They stand at attention, appearing surprisingly healthy and sturdy for normally being tucked away inside his slacks. Fenton hasn’t had much experience with rooster feathers, but he had assumed that such stiff feathers being bent or folded, especially every single day as Gyro must do, would damage them, create creases maybe. Duck tails don’t have those sorts of feathers. Fenton’s own tail is just made up of a handful of soft down and he had never realized tail feathers could be arousing to a duck, considering that they played no part in his own evolution, but he can feel his body reacting to the sight of them. There’s something about the showiness of their size and shape and color that implies a certain dominance to them. Somehow, Fenton can tell just by looking at them that Gyro must be an amazing lover.

“You ready?” Gyro asks. He lays one hand against the doorframe. It’s an endearingly relaxed gesture.

“Um,” Fenton hesitates, thinking about what to say, thinking about their earlier conversation. He doesn’t feel like he’s a danger to Gyro right now, but Gyro had also told him not to let it get that far. How would he know though? It’s not like he can read Fenton’s mind. Unless Fenton does let it get too far and ends up attacking him again. He wouldn’t do that though, he’s in control of his own body. Except he had thought the same thing yesterday until he found himself waking up on the floor with a splitting headache. By God, why is he reacting like this to his tail feathers? It’s just a tail! But it’s such a beautiful tail! This is humiliating. “You, uh, you said if I was having unusual feelings, I should tell you.”

Gyro is quiet for a moment, seemingly frozen in place. Then he backs up a couple of inches so that he is still in the doorway but more out of the room than in now.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Arousal,” Fenton confesses. He feels his face going hot. His lower back prickles. There’s something moving between his legs. He covers the area with both hands, hoping to hold it in for now. “Or, pre-arousal, maybe. I’ve never seen your tail feathers before and they’re very, um, attractive.”

“I see,” Gyro frowns. He crosses his arms across his chest in a way that can only be interpreted as defensive. “Thank you for telling me. I assumed that since you are a duck you would not have any reaction to any chicken-exclusive secondary sex characteristics. Would you like me to go change into something more concealing?”

“That wouldn’t be fair for me to ask you to dress differently on your day off,” Fenton replies, avoiding his eyes. “And I feel like it would be best for me to get used to seeing them, otherwise it would just give me something to fixate on. Plus, um, it doesn’t do anything about my current situation. So, uh, yeah. I could wait for it to go away. Or I could go take a cold shower, perhaps.”

“It would be quicker if you just took care of it,” Gyro says, waving off Fenton’s proposals. He turns and lays a palm against the edge of the door, close to the knob. “I’ll leave the door unlocked, please make sure to wash your hands afterward.”

“Wash my…I thought you didn’t want me to do that anymore?” Fenton nearly chokes on the air.

“When did I ever give you that idea?” Gyro asks, seemingly perplexed by the question.

“The rules,” Fenton fumbles with an explanation, but his mind is starting to go murky as the blood abandons his head for a more southern climate. “The stuff about the internet.”

“I don’t want you going out of your way to tempt yourself, no,” Gyro agrees, shaking his head. “But you can’t help how your body reacts normally so there is nothing wrong with taking care of it. I’ll be working on some stuff in the living room. Please come out as soon as you’re done.”

Fenton buries his face in a pillow to muffle the desperate whine that spills from his throat. He doesn’t even try to suppress his thoughts. All he can think of is the glossiness of the black feathers, imagining himself surrounded by them, feeling their silky sheen against his face instead of the rough cotton pillowcase.

* * *

Gyro has never been to a drake complex. This is in no way surprising. Fenton can’t imagine why he ever would have. Most people avoid them, Fenton’s mother has never even seen where he lives. Visiting time for non-drakes is limited to daylight only hours and Fenton rarely sees anybody roaming the halls besides male ducks, even on the weekends when he is home more often than on weekdays.

He feels guilty for dragging Gyro to the place, as if he were forcing him to accompany him to a drug den or some seedy strip joint. Gyro was nearly assaulted by a duck just yesterday and now he’s thrown into a den of them. The way the chicken shrinks away from anybody they pass along the way only intensifies the guilt. His gorgeous tail is drawn up close behind him, as if he is afraid that somebody will grab at the feathers. He’s seemed self-conscious about said fathers since Fenton emerged from the bedroom. Going out of his way to turn in a way to attempt to hide them whenever he speaks and making sure to never walk in front of him.

"I’ll be quick,” Fenton apologizes. He goes to the coat closet and rummages for a duffle bag. Gyro stands directly before the front door and looks around the tiny excuse for a flat. The studio apartment could fit in Gyro’s living room with room to spare. Hell, it could probably fit in Fenton’s guestroom. His twin bed in the corner is unmade and there is a pile of clean but unfolded laundry piled up on his single lounge chair.

“Is this your whole apartment?” Gyro asks. His voice is unreadable. Quiet. Fenton thinks he is probably disgusted with the state of the place. He would be too after living in an apartment as spotless and organized as Gyro’s. He grabs a couple of empty water bottles and shoves them into a grocery bag of trash he keeps by his desk.

“Well, there’s the bathroom over there, if you need to use it.” Fenton points to the door. Then he remembers how dirty that bathroom is right now – toothpaste in the sink, dirty clothes on the floor – and hopes Gyro doesn’t need to use it. “Sorry about the mess, I’ve been busy between work and class.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gyro says smoothly. “I’m sure it’s hard to keep such a small area organized, this is barely any bigger than my college dorm room.”

He takes a minute to clean out some produce and a half-empty bottle of almond milk from the fridge. If he’s going to be absent from the apartment for a couple of weeks, he would prefer not to return home to a refrigerator full of rotten food. A few packs of herbal tea are tossed into the duffle bag on top of his rolled-up handfuls of clothing. There is a small potted plant beside the kitchen window, a pale green succulent his mother had gifted him for Easter a couple of years ago. He half fills a glass from the drainer and waters the plant. It’s a desert plant so it should be fine for a while.

“I just need to check my computer for a second,” Fenton says as he opens up his laptop. He smiles apologetically at Gyro who still has not moved from the entrance. “For school. I need to know which books are listed on my syllabi; I don’t really want to drag the whole pile.”

“Of course. Make sure you get everything you’ll need.”

The syllabi only show three books needed for the next two weeks but he adds another two that will carry him forward a month. Just in case. Then he slips his messenger bag with his laptop, cords, and other odds and ends over his head, and throws the duffle bag over his shoulder. That leaves him with one hand to carry the trash to the disposal chute at the end of the hallway.

“Let me help,” Gyro steps up, reaching for the duffle bag, but Fenton steps back before Gyro can grab hold of the strap.

“I’m fine,” he forces a smile. “It’s not that heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

“You’re still healing,” Gyro points out where the duffle bag strap is biting into his arm dangerously close to the butterfly stitches on his bicep. “Just let me help. I’d feel like a dick letting you carry everything.”

“You’re right,” Fenton relents. “About my arm aching, I mean. Not about you looking like a dick.”

He allows Gyro to take the bag from him. But he carries the trash to the end of the hallway himself and pushes it into the little metal door, making sure it doesn’t get stuck as it plummets down the chute. The air itself seems to shift as soon as they’re back outside and Fenton takes a deep breath. Funny how you don’t notice how stifling an atmosphere can be until you escape it.

“Let’s get a drink at Starducks on the way back,” Gyro suggests, walking briskly beside him so that Fenton is forced to jog to keep up. “We’ll hit the drive-through.”

If Gyro had previous plans for the weekend, he doesn’t mention them. They return to the condo with their drinks and Gyro carefully latches all three of the locks on the door behind them. It’s different than how it felt being locked in the bedroom. Less oppressive with all the open space. Or maybe just knowing that Gyro is here with him makes it easier to breathe.

“It’s best if we spend the weekend in,” his mentor explains. “I assume you have enough schoolwork to keep you busy?”

“Some,” Fenton admits. He has been slacking with all his recent weekend visits to St. Canard. He’s done his best to get through his work on the weekdays and while the other two were sleeping or otherwise busy, but he honestly needs a couple of weekends to buckle down and get caught up.

“Well, you have free range of the condo,” Gyro says. “Except my bedroom, of course. So feel free to work wherever you feel inspired. I suppose I should give you the full tour.”

Fenton had noticed all the closed doors around the place, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to ask. So he follows along excitedly even though the tour is rather short. Besides the two bedrooms, there is a laundry room, a walk-in pantry, a handful of closets including one for just linens, and a room that Gyro refers to as his “home gym” except the name is extremely misleading. There is only one piece of equipment inside it – a fancy looking treadmill. But in the corner, he has piled up what looks like a yoga mat, a workout band, and one of those blow-up exercise balls. The opposite wall is composed of what appears to be a giant aquarium, except there is no running water, no audible filter. It is, however, absolutely packed full of green vegetation.

“You have a fish tank?”

“Hmm, well, not strictly speaking, no,” Gyro replies. He walks over to the aquarium and lightly touches the glass with one finger. Fenton notices the movement of something small and red inside behind all the greenery. “It’s a shrimp tank. I’m not so fascinated by the shrimp as the plants, however. The shrimp were just leftover from an experiment I did a few years ago so I decided to bring them home. But the plants. Well. I interned in Japan when I was about your age, you see. And picked up an appreciation for the art of caring after bonsai plants. I had to leave my trees when I moved back to the US and I didn’t quite have the heart to start over. Once I was assigned the lab, I found myself watching how the kelp kept moving through the windows and it just sort of morphed from there.”

His fascination with water. Fenton gets it now. He’s attempted to bring part of the tranquility of the ocean home. He can’t exactly understand the fascination with plants but he was never much of a gardener.

“Why in here, though?” Fenton asks, noting how out of place the lovely aquarium looks inside the stuffy room that smells vaguely of old sweat. “Why don’t you keep the aquarium in the living room? It’d look beautiful as an accent piece, I think. Something to soften all the sharp angles.”

Gyro goes silent, just staring at the little red shrimp fluttering through the tangles of greenery. When he wordlessly picks up a pair of sharp-looking scissors from a small table in the corner, Fenton’s heart leaps into his throat, irrationally jumping to the conclusion that Gyro is about to stab him and be done with this entire mess in one go.

Instead, the man opens up the top of the aquarium and begins to carefully snip off some of the lacy looking greenery at the very top of the water. He sets these small bits on top of the tank’s cover and moves onto another section. His face is unusually placid.

“It’s…a hobby of mine,” he explains as he carefully trims the water plants. “One I am pretty private about. I know a lot of people keep aquariums but, well. It’s not just some extravagant saltwater conversation piece. It’s more like a meditative tool. Sometimes I bring dates home and I don’t necessarily want them to see that side of me. Not the first night, anyway.”

“How odd,” Fenton says quietly, too quietly for Gyro to even hear with his back turned to him. The aquarium is tall enough that Gyro is standing up on his toes to reach the plants easier and the position leaves his tail out on full display. He is totally open in this position, arms up, back turned, concentration turned away from the duck. Fenton admires the dark plumage but he is not feeling anything insidious at the sight of them. “He’s hiding a piece of his heart in his own home, but here he is, just pulling it out and baring it out in the open for me to see. I wonder what I could have done to earn this privilege.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of curiosity, did anybody ever pick up what the title of this is from?
> 
> Isn't me, have a seed  
> Let me clip dirty wings  
> Let me take a ride, cut yourself  
> Want some help, please myself  
> -Polly by Nirvana

“Do you have any dirty clothes needing washing?”

The withering glare that Gyro turns towards Fenton would likely cause many of his former students to wet themselves in fear. A few months ago, Fenton would probably have experienced a similar sort of terror under the unwavering gaze of his mentor, but things are different now. Between the months spent working closely together in the lab and the concern he has openly shown for him over the last couple of days, Fenton understands that the grumpy old rooster is mostly all bark with very little bite. Mostly.

“I am working,” Gyro spits out, bristling like an annoyed house cat.

Well, yes, Fenton knows that. Only a half-hour has passed since Gyro had announced his intent to spend the afternoon writing an article for an upcoming science journal. In the past thirty minutes, he has changed into a gray sweatshirt with the Yarvard University logo printed across the front, brewed himself a cup of that fancy craft coffee he likes, set the voice-activated speaker in the living room to play classical music, gathered a pile of books and folders full of notes, and plopped himself down in his favorite spot on the sofa. Even if he hadn’t told Fenton how he would be spending the next few hours, Fenton would have to be blind to not pick up on it. Everything about his current state of being screams “writing a research paper!”

“I know,” he agrees placidly, smiling at Gyro in a way he hopes is placating. “And I’m doing laundry.”

“You don’t interrupt somebody when they’re in the middle of writing,” Gyro glowers. He picks up his coffee and holds it between his hands, making no motion to actually drink from it. “I told you the deadline is Wednesday, I need to concentrate.”

“You’re organizing your notes still,” Fenton points out, indicating to the pile of papers that Gyro had been spreading around himself as if he were a spider in the middle of his own web of text and charts. “You haven’t even touched the keyboard yet, the laptop is just sitting on your stand. I figured it was best to ask you before you started.”

Gyro blinks at him, surprised by Fenton’s observation. Then he shakes his head as if shaking the thoughts from it. He takes a sip from his coffee and sets it back down on the little lap table beside the computer.

“I thought you were working on your dissertation?” Gyro asks, reaching down to crack open the laptop. “Or did you decide to go work on a pot farm after all?”

It’s been drizzling all day, the sky over the bay bordering between heather and charcoal. The heater has been switching on and off periodically since this morning, chasing away the damp chill, but there still seems to be a cold bite clinging to the air. Unlike Gyro, Fenton hadn’t waited until the afternoon to wrap himself up in something soft and warm to ward off the cold, but he doesn’t own a university sweatshirt. Those things are expensive, like forty bucks, and Fenton could never afford one of them. Instead, he’s wearing the poncho hoodie that Launchpad had bought him a few months ago. It still smells like the salt from the bay and Gyro had lifted an eyebrow when he had first seen him wearing it, asking if he was planning on going surfing on such a rainy day or if he had spontaneously decided to join a hippie commune.

“I am. Working on my paper, I mean.” Fenton confirms, still standing in front of Gyro with the very small pile of clothing in his arms. It feels awkward to do so, he should have dropped them off in the laundry room first but hindsight and all that. “I need to put the laundry in first.”

“You’ve been here two days,” Gyro counters, raising an eyebrow at the pathetic amount of dirty laundry he spots in Fenton’s grasp. “Why do you need to do laundry already? Did you only bring two shirts? I know I’ve seen you in at least four distinct shades of blue, alone.”

“Oh, uh,” Fenton laughs uncomfortably and hugs the pile of laundry tighter to his chest. His response feels ridiculous and trying to explain it to somebody as intelligent yet critical as his mentor just makes the situation a hundred times more embarrassing. “It helps me think.”

“Laundry helps you think?” Gyro asks slowly, enunciating the last word of the question clearly for emphasis. “Like, what part? Do you need to get dressed repeatedly? I read this book once where the protagonist discussed how he would spend twenty minutes putting on his socks every day because it’s when he did his best thinking. Are you one of those people?”

“Not the clothes, the laundry machines,” Fenton clarifies. “I’ve been writing papers in my apartment’s laundry room since I turned eighteen and it’s just sort of my routine now. It’s so hard to catch them when they’re empty…I have trouble writing without the sounds of the machines now.”

“I see,” Gyro says, drawing out the second word. There’s still something slightly critical in his voice but he no longer sounds annoyed, just bemused. “You realize there are probably ASMR videos of laundry machines on YouTube?”

“There are,” Fenton confirms, shrugging. “But it’s different. You can’t feel the vibration through the floor or the humidity in the air or smell the detergent. It’s the entire experience, not just the sounds.”

“Why are you like this?” Gyro sighs, reaching up to adjust his glasses. He closes his eyes and rubs at his temple as if this entire conversation has given him a headache. “There is a hamper in my bedroom next to my dresser. I think you can find it without me taking your hand and leading you to it?”

“Your bedroom?” Fenton asks, voice cracking embarrassingly in the air between them. He coughs, trying to get whatever is apparently stuck in his throat out. “You want me to go into your bedroom? Alone?”

“I am busy,” he reiterates, lightly smacking the keyboard of his laptop for emphasis. Not angrily, just as if to remind Fenton that it exists. Fenton can’t see the screen from here but he doesn’t think Gyro has even logged onto his account yet. “Go get my damn laundry from the hamper and leave me alone before I send you to your room.”

“Yes, sir,” Fenton replies sheepishly. He scurries out of the other man’s proximity. But he stops when he makes it to the oh so forbidden door. It’s just a door, the same color and shape as the one leading into the guestroom where Fenton is currently staying, but it’s not the same door. This one opens up to the secret area. He glances at the back of Gyro’s head, hesitating. The sound of clacking keys is both distant and too close. Is he really supposed to go inside Gyro’s most personal and intimate space? Alone? Taking a deep breath, Fenton turns the knob, half expecting to be met with an electric shock through his hand, or an air horn and flashing lights announcing his intrusion.

Instead, he’s only met with dim lighting and a wave of cool air. He closes the door behind himself to keep the air from escaping into the relative warmth of the living room.

It takes a moment for Fenton’s eyes to adjust. Compared to the bright, airy living room, Gyro’s bedroom is dark and cozy. It feels like walking indoors on a sunny day. He blinks for a minute, gazing around the elegant bedroom as he waits for the spots in his vision to disappear. It’s just a normal bedroom – bed, dresser, mirror, bookcase, television. No robots or test-tube clones hiding in the corner as he had secretly suspected deep inside his subconscious. It sort of feels like an upscale hotel, it is so neat and orderly.

It also seems almost like an extension of the other room. The same muted colors and clean edges. The same wooden floor and gray curtains. It has the same wall of windows as both the living room and Fenton’s room except the blackout curtains are drawn completely across them, enveloping the space in darkness. Glancing around, Fenton sees no immediate light switch. A soft cream glow emits from a tall, oblong glass object in the corner. Some sort of lamp, of course, but there is no immediate evidence that it possesses either bulbs or an electrical source. It seems to be freestanding and as clear as a glass vase.

He can’t help but walk up to touch it, still clutching his pile of dirty laundry against him with his left arm. The lamp is cool to the touch and feels like the smoothest glass in existence. It’s almost liquid. His fingers glide across the surface like sharpened skates on ice.

“It must be one of his own inventions,” Fenton mutters to himself, unconsciously reaching up to touch his forehead in wonder. Gyro never ceases to amaze him. How did he create a light source with no obvious point of origin for the light itself? “Where is its energy source?”

Another one of his inventions is resting on top of the dresser. Easy to almost overlook given its size and Fenton probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t seen pictures of it many years ago. A small chrome box about the size of a Rubik’s Cube. The air spilling from inside it is painfully cold when he waves his fingers in front of the small vents on either side, reminiscent of dry ice. The tiny fan inside the contraption that is blowing the icy air is almost silent and the rate it is being expelled would be impractical as an actual air conditioner which he knows is why the invention never made it past the prototype stage. Inside the box is an algae culture that feeds and thrives on the bare minimum of nutrition – dust, skin particles in the air. Perhaps the occasional bit of fish food added through a small slit on the top.

“Oh, cool,” Fenton says, grinning at the box. He’d first read about the invention in an old tech magazine article when he was just a kid; he never thought he’d see the only existing device in person. When Gyro had first shared the invention with the world, he had been young, barely older than Fenton is now. A nobody. The idea of one of Gyro Gearloose’s inventions being turned away today is laughable.

The fact the prototype is still running and seemingly capable of lowering the temperature of the room by at least ten degrees compared to the rest of the condo is astounding. Was it so solidly constructed that it’s just been chugging along for eighteen years, or has Gyro carried out regular upkeep on the gadget? Surely the algae would have needed to have been replenished, at the very least?

Right, he's getting distracted. Flush against the side of the same dresser that holds the metal box is a simple black wicker hamper basket half-filled with clothes. His arms full of his own laundry, Fenton looks down at the hamper and wonders how he should go about this. Should he ask Gyro if it’s okay to take the hamper out of his room? He would probably kill him for disrupting him again.

He settles on just taking the basket with him. Gyro probably won’t even notice as long as he returns it once he’s done. Depositing his own pile on top of Gyro’s laundry, he picks up the hamper with its two sturdy handles and heads back out the door. It's not heavy but it is bulky and Fenton keeps accidentally hitting the side against his knees as he steps. If Gyro noticed that he was in the room longer than he needed to be to fetch some dirty laundry, he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t acknowledge Fenton’s presence at all.

At least the washer and dryer seem to just be normal, store-bought varieties. Much smaller than the industrial style ones in his own apartment that eat up quarters worse than an eighty’s arcade. Fenton sorts through the clothing, separating the whites from the colors. This isn’t something he normally bothers to do with his own clothing, especially since he doesn’t really have any whites, but he doesn’t want to risk staining any of Gyro’s clothes. Helping him with the chores around the house is the bare minimum he can do to repay him for his help so it would be nice if he could not mess it up.

Starting with the whites makes the most sense in his head. If the colors do run it won’t be until after the whites are finished. But neither of them own that many whites. He throws a few of his own pastel shirts in the laundry, figuring that the muted shades are close enough. The rest of the first load ends up being compromised of mostly underthings. Gyro apparently wears white sleeveless undershirts beneath his work attire sometimes because there are several of them in the pile as well as white socks and a couple of pairs of very plain looking briefs. Somehow, Fenton never would have guessed that Gyro was a tighty-whitie guy. At least partly, anyway, because there are more black boxer-briefs than the white variety in the pile.

Fenton doesn’t own or wear much underwear himself. As is true with most ducks, male and female, the vast majority of bottoms are very unflattering to his figure. Always too tight in the butt and too loose around the waist. If you never wear pants, the need for underwear is moot. It’s not that they aren’t capable of designing bottoms that flatter the duck body, but most big retailers do not carry such styles and Fenton is too poor to shop at the specialty, duck-owned boutiques. It would have been easier if he had been a woman, many dresses and skirts are cut loose enough that women have an easier time shopping.

The first pair of white briefs he holds up before him leaves him marveling at the size so long that he doesn’t even have time to become flustered over the idea of what he is looking at. They’re so very small! How strange it must feel to be so lithe in that area that such a tiny scrap of clothing can cover you. Except the hole in the back is much bigger than in any of the underwear or pants Fenton has ever owned. He supposes he’s never thought of it before, but Gyro’s long, broad tail would never fit through any of the little slits that so easily accommodate his own. Even having a more socially desirable body like Gyro’s comes with its own problems.

“I wonder if he buys special clothes or has them tailored?” Fenton wonders aloud as he tosses them into the washer. And why doesn’t he seem to own any pants with a tail hole? He understands in a lab setting why he would keep his tail tucked away, it could be dangerous to risk catching the long feathers in something or having them knock over chemicals or a Bunsen burner in the chemistry area. But even the pair of black dress pants he finds near the bottom of the hamper has no hole in the back. He’s never seen him wear these pants to the lab so it must have been for something related to his professor duties or something.

Is he ashamed of his tail? He shouldn’t be. It’s gorgeous. If Fenton had a tail like that he'd show it off proudly. Would Gyro go so far as to even hide it when on a date? Except Gyro probably dates other roosters with tails just as flamboyant and showy as his own. Maybe even more so. Would he hide his tail from those men because he was afraid it wouldn’t be as flashy as theirs? Black is a more muted color for a rooster’s tail but Fenton can't imagine Gyro with red or green or purple feathers. Black is dignified yet impressive.

Then it occurs to him to question, what if the dress pants he had found at the bottom of the hamper had been for a date? What if Gyro had gone out with some man in the past week? He has no obligation to tell Fenton about his personal life, to do so would probably be considered improper if anything. An uncomfortable prickling sensation flutters across the back of Fenton’s neck. Jealousy. A hot flash of anger makes his temples throb as he grits his teeth, trying to repress the thought of Gyro out there wining and dining some stranger. Of course, Gyro has a life outside of Fenton, how can he not? 

He thinks about his and Gyro’s conversation yesterday. Strong emotions are dangerous. He is supposed to tell Gyro if he’s feeling something like this. But he’s not even near him right now. And he doesn’t want to admit to these kind of emotions. Sexual longing is one thing, jealousy is an entirely different matter altogether. Just because Gyro knows that his body finds him sexually attractive doesn’t mean he realizes Fenton’s true feelings towards him. Even being knocked out by him with a lamp to the head hasn’t rid him of this longing. Knowing how much the older man wants to help him has just strengthened the feelings.

A few minutes to calm down, that’s all he needs. Slamming the lid down on the washer, he turns the dial and presses the on button. Then he sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and closes his eyes, waiting for the feelings to pass. He doesn’t like these emotions. They’re uncomfortable. They leave him feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin. He concentrates on the sound of running water. But before long his mind is wondering again back to those pants. They’re sitting in a pile on the floor, waiting for their turn to be thrown into the washer. The creases still neatly ironed in. He’ll have to re-iron them once they come out of the dryer. The task made easier without a hole in the back to mess up.

If Gyro did go on a date with some man, he didn’t show his tail to him. But he’s been walking around all weekend without any bottoms, allowing Fenton to stare at it as much as he wants. Is that because he doesn’t care about Fenton’s opinion of it or he trusts him enough to allow him to see it? Maybe he _wants_ Fenton to see his tail. Maybe he's showing it off for him?

Or maybe he's projecting because he wants Gyro to like him like he likes Gyro.

Fenton’s stomach hurts. He rubs at the sore spot on his arm without thinking about it, stopping when he feels the bandage still wrapped around his bicep. The pain helps, somewhat, distracting him from the emotional pain with physical.

He gathers up the hamper and returns to the living room, careful to walk quietly and stay out of Gyro’s line of vision. He is quick to slip back inside the bedroom and leave the hamper where he had found it.

Knowing this might be his last time ever in the genius’s bedroom, Fenton looks around once more, trying to spot any other spare inventions lurking in the small space. He doesn’t see any. Nothing that visibly stands out anyway. What does catch his eye more firmly this time, however, is the bookcase.

The wall beside the door is taken up entirely by it. It is not comprised of several free-standing bookcases or even just one large one. The entire wall itself is the bookcase, he realizes, set moderately deeply into the structure. Unless he paid for some heavy construction, the condo probably came with this feature. It might have even been one of the selling points for the scientist. Fenton would love to have a bookcase like this in his home too.

Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, the entire bookcase is packed full. Some books even lie sideways on top of some of the shorter ones, filling every available inch of space with paper and ink. They're not ancient, leather-bound tomes or small, pocket-sized novels. They're books on science, some textbooks, some on theory, with clear, well displayed titles. Fenton fidgets, rubbing his palms together anxiously.

If Gyro is really that immersed in his writing right now, he probably won’t notice if Fenton lingers awhile longer. It’s not like he’s doing anything bad, he just wants to look. How can anybody be presented with a bookcase and not want to inspect it?

Because of the dim lighting in the room, the shadows all but obscure some of the titles closest to the door and the ones along the bottom shelves, but there really are too many books to do more than skim the spines anyway. Right away, he notices the ones in the top left corner were all written by Gyro. And there are so many of them! When did he have time to write so many books?

The way a person organizes their bookshelves says a lot about their personalities. By author? Subject? Color? Alphabetically? By age? Gyro’s seem to be organized by subject though how the subjects are organized may just be chance. Thick, heavy tomes on chemistry are pushed flush against a number of thin, new-looking textbooks on robotics. Which is then followed immediately by a section on astronomy and then a section on…aquatic plants. Oh. Fenton smiles at this category. There are only three books on the topic, crammed between all the more complicated areas, but when he carefully pulls one out to inspect it he sees the pages are well worn and Gyro’s neat, cramped handwriting is scrawled all over the pages, circling certain paragraphs and penciling in notes, adding to and sometimes refuting the claims in the book.

Fenton slides the object back into the empty space and glances at the next part of the bookshelf. Time travel theory. Huh. Fenton wouldn’t have guessed somebody as practical as Gyro would be into that sort of theoretical science. He isn’t sure if the handful of books on blackholes immediately following relates to the subject of time travel or is an entirely new section.

He’s crouching on the floor, squinting through the dim lighting of the shadow overlaying the bottom shelf, when he feels his blood run cold. For a moment, his vision doubles and he’s sure it’s partially to do with the squinting but he feels disoriented and dizzy as he loses his balance and falls flat onto his butt on the floor. No time to think about the commotion he made or the ache in his tailbone.

Not even hesitating, Fenton grabs for the first book on the bottom shelf.

_The Humane Solution: An Argument for Drake Eugenics in the New Millennium_

This is the first time Fenton has ever seen an actual copy of this book. He’s heard of it, of course, what duck hasn’t? It’s infamous. A relic of the eighties. Only one run of the book had been printed, the publisher nullifying their contract with the author immediate after, when accusations of study bias and leaked information regarding funding from some shady backers had come to light. Yet idiots continue to quote and refer to it to this day because it doesn't matter how poor the study, if there is a doctor in front of the author's name and it furthers their agenda? Good enough!

The concept isn’t a new one. Society has supported duck eugenics for generations, whether it be the wiping out of entire populations in the Middle Ages through male infanticide, arranging marriages for the hens to non-drakes during the Renaissance to decrease duck births, or physically castrating eighty percent of the males during the pre-war period.

But modern society prefers to pretend they never supported those policies. The government claims it isn’t trying to cease the reproduction of an entire race. As if duck populations haven’t continued to plummet since the introduction of the implant. And there still hasn’t been an official apology for the forced sterilization either. How many years were all but the least-intimidating twenty percent of the drake population rendered infertile? It had been the federal policy since almost the forming of the nation.

All this information is here on these pages. The first quarter of the book covers this history, albeit extremely abridged. The spine of the heavy book is well-cracked and it falls easily open across his lap, lying nearly flat. Gyro has written in this book as well. The notes are not as densely jotted down in the margins as those found in the book on plants, but there are enough, barely a page passes without at least one or two sidenotes. His boss has read and reread this book, possibly to the point of memorization.

Fenton looks at the empty space on the bookshelf where he had extracted the tome. As expected, there are a number of similar publications standing beside the gap. Not on eugenics, specifically, but on male ducks and their physiology as well as a couple on the implant itself. He pulls them all out and goes through them one at a time, checking the table of contents in each and skimming through the chapters that catch his eye. He finds no information he is unaware of, none of it is new and most of it is rather dated. But he is a drake and he is a scientist, he has researched his own people to within an inch of his life.

Still, as he looks at the diagrams of the “natural” and “altered” duck penis he can’t help but think to himself that Gyro has seen these pages. He has scrutinized these pictures, drank in these words. Is this what he thinks of when he looks at Fenton? Does he see this diagram of a short, underdeveloped man standing beside a hulking creature, more beast than person?

It doesn’t take long before Fenton is lost in his reading. One of the pieces is a collection of case studies, including one about a drake that had been found to be allergic to the implant and had lived out his life unaltered. By the time he was forty, he had been permanently hospitalized for the safety of everyone around him. Yet he never committed a crime. It was a pre-emptive move initiated by the man himself. There are no pictures included in the report and the names are all pseudonyms given the man’s presumptive innocence. Fenton can’t help but find an image of Launchpad popping into his head as he reads the descriptions of the drake’s impressive size. He could easily have been a good two feet taller than his own current size.

When Gyro finally comes looking for him, he doesn’t even notice the sound of the door opening.

“Fenton? You’ve been in here forever what are you- Oh,” Gyro cocks his head, looking down at the duck sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, oblivious to the passage of time. “That’s fine. If you wanted to read something you should have just said so. Lamp, set light to eighty percent.”

The glass lamp seems to burst with the glow of a fully formed sun, the brightness bringing an immediate wince to Fenton’s features. He squints against the sudden glow, his eyes watering as his pupils adjust.

“There, see better now?” Gyro asks, bemusement in his voice, not noticing Fenton’s obvious discomfort.

“Yes,” Fenton says, his voice tight as he attempts to hide the mixture of hurt and anger coiling inside his stomach. He wants to reach up and rub at his eyes, but it feels like a weakness to give in, so he allows the tears to cling to his smarting eyelids instead. “Though I think it would be better if I had just been blind to begin with.”

“Better if you had been…” Gyro trails off. He notices the stack of books at Fenton’s side, seems to immediately recognize them unless he is capable of spotting their sideways titles from across the room and can easily read them from such an angle. He strolls forward, a forced casualness to his gait. “I see. I guess I can see why you would be drawn to those ones.”

“Do you?” Fenton challenges lowly. “Because I don’t see why you would be.”

Gyro takes a seat across from him on the floor, carefully crossing his long legs beneath him. They’re so gangly that he looks completely ridiculous sitting on the ground like this, his knobby knees jutting out like branches from a brush pile. He picks up the book from the top of the list and opens it, perusing the table of contents as Fenton glares at him. This may be the closest that Gyro has sat to him since they went out to lunch on Friday. Why is he sitting so close all of a sudden, breaking his own list of rules?

“Ugh, this is so outdated,” Gyro complains, making a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. He turns the pages in a way that borders on aggressive. “I admit, I have no real reason to hold onto these, I just have trouble throwing things out. Especially books.”

“You’ve had them for a while then?” Fenton asks, a little of the heaviness lifting in his chest. Part of him had feared that these were new acquisitions. That Gyro had gone out of his way to research drakes after bringing Fenton on as an intern. It doesn’t necessarily make him feel any better to have that fear set aside, but he feels less targeted, at least.

“A good twenty years now,” Gyro says, his voice going distant. “For the record, I did my dissertation on drake development under the influence of the implant.”

“You did?” Fenton asks, startled by this revelation. True, he never bothered to ask him about his dissertation, but he had always assumed it would have been about robotics or something mechanical, not something medical. “Do you mind if I ask why you chose that subject for your dissertation? That’s just really surprising.”

Gyro shrugs listlessly, still flipping through the pages of the book he’s holding. His fingers are so long and delicate compared to Fenton’s own stubby ones, there’s something almost poetic about the motion.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” he admits, eyes on the book though he’s obviously not reading any of the words in front of him.

“Embarrassing?” Fenton asks.

Gyro looks up, meeting Fenton’s eyes, gazing into them as if trying to figure out if he wants to talk to him or not. He scratches at something on one of the pages, mumbling something about splattered coffee.

“This never gets out,” he instructs, tone serious. “I swear, my entire life hasn’t revolved around doomed relationships, despite what you’ve learned about me the last few days. But I dated a drake for a short time as a graduate student.”

“Seriously?” Fenton asks. That prickling sensation in the back of his neck has returned which is ridiculous because Gyro was a graduate student over twenty years ago and unless this other drake suddenly strolls back into his life, he doesn’t think he should consider him much competition for Gyro’s time.

“Yes, and stop looking at me like that. It wasn’t this big, life-changing experience,” he rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed at the prospect of even bringing up these old memories. “The relationship only lasted like a month. We ended up being…sexually incompatible, as expected. The breakup was mutual. We stayed friends. He moved across the country after that and we just sort of lost touch.”

“You must have known how it would have ended,” Fenton prods, “Why did you enter a relationship you knew wouldn’t work in the first place?”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Gyro smiles but there is something painful at the edges of his mouth. Something that Fenton recognizes but can’t put a finger on. “I know, it was foolish of me. I thought I’d be okay without sex, but I was young and stupid. And yes, I do know that seems to be a theme with my recent stories.”

“I don’t think there’s anything stupid about being in love,” Fenton offers softly. He wants to reach over and touch Gyro’s knee but that’s against the rules so he just rubs his thumb against his own leg instead.

“Oh, it wasn’t love,” Gyro waves off the comment. “I told you, I dated the guy for like a month. You don’t fall in love that quickly. He was just…ridiculously good looking. Stop it, no laughing.”

“I’m not laughing,” Fenton promises from behind the hand hiding the smirk on his face.

“It’s really not a big deal,” the older man insists once more. “Just, dating him kind of sparked an interest in the benefits and disadvantages of the implant. It was just one of a string of relationships for me, something I easily moved on from. But for him, well, it was different. His dating options were very limited.”

“Not many people are willing to date a drake besides another drake,” Fenton says what Gyro is thinking.

“Yes,” Gyro agrees, sighing. Then he grimaces, moving aside several of the books to get to the one at the bottom of the pile. The first one Fenton had taken off the shelf. “Then there had been discussion about doing a second print on this piece of shit book and I decided to write an entire paper disputing the facts in it.”

“That’s what your dissertation was on?” Fenton asks. Like that, the pressure weighing him down inside has lifted.

“Essentially,” Gyro says, tapping his finger on the cover of _The Humane Solution_. He doesn’t even bother to open it. “This Oklahoma publisher had announced their intention to print a revised, updated version that included a dozen or so new studies that had been carried out since the initial publication. They were all garbage reports. Sweeney isn’t even a hard scientist; do you know that? He’s just a social scientist, I think his doctorate is in anthropology or some crap like that. Don’t quote me on that, it’s been a long time since I researched his background. I’m not even sure if he’s still alive, even.”

“Can I read it?” Fenton asks. “Your dissertation, I mean.”

“Why would you want to?” Gyro asks, cocking his head as he stares at his intern.

“Curiosity?”

Gyro shakes his head. Fenton isn’t sure if that means his answer wasn’t good enough for him. Still, it's nice being this close to him again. He knows he should say something to him, that he's having some inappropriate thoughts about him right now, but he doesn't want him to go away. He's had the implant for two days, he knows he's just beginning to absorb the hormones once more but he thinks it's working, he doesn't _feel_ dangerous.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, to be honest,” he tells him. He adjusts himself, uncrossing his legs and recrossing them so the one that had been on bottom now lies on top. The movement can’t help but draw Fenton’s eyes to the movement of his tail behind him but he tries not to let his gaze linger. “It’s very outdated at this point and I wasn’t the best writer at the time. It comes off as very…juvenile to me, reading it now.”

“I’m sure your points are still relevant,” Fenton counters, turning his eyes down to the book in Gyro’s hands just so he isn’t thinking about how good looking and approachable he comes off in that stupid sweatshirt. “I just am curious what arguments you made and what points of his argument you specifically disagreed with him on. Speaking of which, can I take that one with me? I’d like to actually sit down and read the entire book.”

“Absolutely not,” Gyro shakes his head and tosses the book away from them with a good flick of his wrist. It lands near the leg of his bed with a heavy thud that would have gotten the neighbors beneath him pounding on the ceiling with the handle of a broom if it had been Fenton’s apartment. “There is no merit in even giving that pseudo-science another moment of your time. Bad enough I had to buy a copy just to write my paper; I couldn’t get it through any of the library systems at the time. At least it was used.”

“Alright,” Fenton concedes. He looks down at the rest of the pile once more and pulls out a different book, this one on the development of the implant itself. “How about this one?”

“Hmm? Oh, that one is okay, but here, this one is better. It has this really interesting section on when they were testing out monthly shots before the implant itself was developed, you see.”

They sit together talking for another fifteen minutes before Gyro glances at his watch and says he needs to get back to work with a heavy, drawn-out sigh. Fenton mimics this sentiment and grabs his own laptop and backpack from the guestroom, bringing everything he needs into the laundry room as he had planned. But his mind is racing and it takes a good half hour before he is able to settle in and begin work on his own paper. He can’t help but think of how Gyro must have approached this same task. He would have been working at some heavy desktop PC, most likely. How would he have felt reading that book for the first time? Taking notes on that awful man's blathering? Perhaps the people in the room next to his would have been blaring Oasis or Blink 182 on their radio, distracting him so that he would have had to read and reread the same paragraph over and over again.

Fenton can't imagine Gyro ever having trouble concentrating.

What was a young Gyro Gearloose like?

It’s strange how easily routine is established. As evening sets in they reconvene for dinner. Gyro cooks, Fenton folds the laundry and sets the table. The radio in the living room is still playing classical music and Gyro allows him a small glass of wine after dinner. Why do they have rules if Gyro is going to keep breaking them? Maybe only Fenton is required to obey them.

They sit at the table once the plates are in the dishwasher, drinking the wine, talking about work and it’s nice. It reminds Fenton of one of their long lunches and Gyro seems almost relaxed with him again. Though he insists that Fenton keep to his side of the table and he doesn’t offer Fenton a second glass when he pours himself one. He fishes a pack of cards out of his junk drawer and they play a few rounds of Gin Rummy as they chat.

Gyro retires early, which means that Fenton also retires early because Gyro is still locking him in the room for the night.

“Going to be weird driving to work together,” he confesses before he locks him in. “Means I’ll have to wait on my coffee.”

“I can run in ahead of you?” Fenton offers, half-joking. It gets a laugh from him, anyway.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He waits until he’s sure that Gyro is in his bedroom before he brings up the school’s library page on the childish tablet he was given. Then he brings up the database.

It isn’t difficult to find. The only keywords he needs to type in are “Gyro Gearloose” and “Sweeney” and the old dissertation pops up in the ProQuest search results. Fenton downloads it as a PDF, realizes quickly the PDF reader on the tablet is crap, downloads a better PDF reader, and then dives in.

Nice to know that Yarvard University’s standard procedure of publishing all student dissertations was already in practice twenty years ago.

The formatting looks just a bit off, revealing the age of the document. Something about the margins and the text – Fenton is quite certain this was not composed on Microsoft Word. A different word processing software, probably, maybe the one they used to bundle in with Microsoft Works. Gyro had said he struggled financially as a student, did the school offer free Microsoft Office installment to its students in 2000? God, would it have come on a floppy disk back then?

The document is 189 pages long and as he scrolls through it, Fenton takes note of the abundance of tables and graphs included. The topics seem far-reaching, including visuals on basic topics such as hormone levels and weights, to the less direct like crime rates and population decline. He taps his screen to reset the document to the first page and starts with the abstract. By the time he gets through the introduction, he has already begun to pick up on Gyro’s voice in the text. It is professional, scholarly, but he can spot the difference between this writing and one of his recent articles. More of Gyro’s personality comes through in this piece but perhaps that is due to the topic itself. This dissertation is, in essence, an argument. A polite, well-thought-out argument, but an argument, nonetheless. There is nothing vague here, Gyro’s paper is a direct refute to Sweeney’s infamous publication.

Sweeney’s controversial proposal had asserted the advantages of immediate castration of all male ducks at birth. As well as the closing of the borders to any non-American ducks in the future so as to “cleanse” the nation of their presence once current populations die off. He does make some fair points – that removal of the testes before puberty guarantees that drakes will grow up stunted, that the price of other treatments like the implant are a drain on the economy, that there are ways for in-tact drakes to avoid implantation including legitimate concerns like allergies or natural-born conditions. The direct quotations still leave a nasty taste in Fenton’s mouth.

Gyro’s ideals are consistent. Even in this two-decades-old text, Fenton sees the same arguments, down to the phrasing, that Gyro uses today to defend the implant. The faith that Gyro has in science and modern medicine is almost inspiring.

Still, when he reads Gyro’s arguments, they don’t sound that far off from Sweeney’s arguments. He in no way attempts to dispute that anything Sweeney says about the nature of ducks is wrong, just that the way society approaches these flaws should be different. Sweeney wants to do away with ducks entirely, Gyro wants to transform them into something new.

Maybe Fenton can see why he didn’t want him reading either pieces, the dissertation or Sweeney’s original publication. They both leave him feeling like some horrible creature that needs to be kept locked up in chains.

Doubtless, Gyro hadn’t realized that calling it an early night was a blessing in disguise for Fenton. He gets through half the dissertation in one night, sipping at his cold tea as late-night turns into early-morning. It’s nearing one when he decides to finish the current topic header and set it aside for the night. He checks the table of contents at the beginning of the paper, just to make sure it doesn’t go on much longer. Only three pages.

He’s so tired he’s half-asleep, eyes drifting closed, when he almost misses it. He’s already moved onto the next paragraph before the meaning hits and he blinks, confused, before scrolling back up on the screen to reread the previous section.

“ _Studies suggest that post-pubescent drakes who have successfully maneuvered adolescence on the implant show little chance of regressing to their baser instincts once they reach their early to mid-twenties. A number of prominent medical professionals recommend lowering the hormone levels after this point or, indeed, forgoing the use of the implants altogether. **[1]** Such practices, while controversial, could do much to improve both the health and the quality of life of the drake population in our nation but further research is needed_.”

Wait, what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t be offended by Gyro crapping on the social sciences, my own degree is in the social sciences


	11. Chapter 11

Morning comes too early. Standing in the doorway, emanating impatience from his very soul, Gyro calls Fenton’s name, repeatedly and loudly, until he jumps with a start, bleary eyes darting around the room fearfully on high alert. Trying to figure out where he is and why he’s suddenly awake. He spots Gyro standing in the doorway and quickly scrabbles to grab at the blankets, pulling them up to his chest to cover his bare feathers. Sunlight streaks across the bed through the large windows.

“Do you wish to accompany me to work today or is that too daunting of a task?” Gyro drawls. He looks ridiculously well put together for this early in the morning, fully dressed, hair styled, holding a steaming mug firmly between both hands as if he were an actor in a damn coffee commercial. It’s both infuriating and arousing how good he looks. Despite himself, Fenton can feel his body reacting, his face going warm. The implant isn’t affecting his libido yet and the way the early morning sun splashes across him like a spotlight gives the older man an almost celestial glow. Waking up to the sight feels like an offering.

“I, I’ll be right there,” Fenton says, his voice hoarse with sleep. He coughs, the scratchiness tickling in the back of his throat. “Give me a minute to use the bathroom and brush my teeth.”

“Be quick about it,” Gyro grumbles back in response. He grabs at the handle to close the door behind him but tilts his head for a moment, looking at Fenton quizzically. “I didn’t realize you slept in the nude.”

There is no time for a shower this morning. Fortunately, Fenton’s casual style of dress isn’t anything like Gyro’s and it’s much easier to just throw on a shirt and tie and run a comb quickly through his hair than whatever Gyro’s morning routine must consist of with his bow tie and pompadour and dorky little hat that always has to sit just right. Is the thing held on with hat pins or something? He brushes his teeth with one hand and his hair with the other and wills his barely forming erection to go away. Being startled out of a sound sleep seems to have excited him, triggering his fight or flight response with a kick of adrenaline that shot right between his legs.

Just because he wants to fuck Gyro doesn’t mean he likes him right now.

He glowers at the other man as he shuffles tiredly into the kitchen, laying the displeasure on thick, but either Gyro doesn’t notice, or he assumes this is Fenton’s usual early-morning demeanor. No homemade breakfast this morning but the kettle on the stove is hot and there is a black travel cup sitting beside it, waiting for him. Fenton grabs a teabag from one of the boxes he brought from the apartment, the sound of the hot water pouring is comforting and nostalgic. Gyro shoves a pre-wrapped cheese Danish in his hand instead and tells him they need to go.

At least Fenton is allowed to sit in the passenger seat instead of the back.

“It’s been three days, I’m sure your hormone levels have dropped to a more manageable level by now,” Gyro excuses as he buckles in.

A more manageable level. Fenton wonders what exact numbers would have to show up on one of the tests for Gyro to consider him at a completely manageable level. What numbers would be considered acceptable to him today? And why are those numbers so drastically different than what he had found sufficient twenty years ago?

Fenton had been up until nearly four, scouring every source at his disposal for information on the permanent impact of the implant on post-adolescent bodies. Specifically, he had been searching for the studies Gyro had referenced in his paper carried out by two scientists by the name of Agafonov and Rabinovich. According to Gyro’s dissertation, they had studied the long-term development of over two dozen subjects following the removal of their implants. All the subjects had been at least in their early twenties, some older. Truly groundbreaking information if Gyro’s notes on the study are to be believed. Yet after nearly three hours of searching through the various school databases, the only information that Fenton had been able to find on this study was a reference to some microfilm in the school basement.

Microfilm. In this day and age.

At least he had been too exhausted to toss and turn in bed. He had passed out the moment his head hit the pillow, only mere minutes passing between setting the bulky tablet aside and awakening to Gyro’s voice yelling at him that he needed to get up.

Fenton nibbles at the Danish as he waits for his tea to cool and thinks to himself that it might have been nicer to sit alone in the back this morning. The silence is disconcerting and after only a couple of minutes, he leans forward to play with the radio, trying to find a station playing music this early. Most of the stations are filled with obnoxiously cheerful voices of bland morning radio show hosts. Gyro tells him to stop on some song that Fenton doesn’t recognize.

“It’s Polly?” Gyro says, waving one of his hands in exasperation when Fenton doesn’t recognize it. “By Nirvana? The most infamous band to come out of the 90s?”

“I was barely born in the 90s,” Fenton says under his breath. “Not all of us were around during the Eisenhower administration.”

“Just how old do you think I am?” Gyro snarks back. He leans forward and turns the radio dial, increasing the volume by a few decibels. “Your mother is probably older than me, do you talk to her like that?”

Fenton shrugs a response, sitting back against his seat and crossing his arms defiantly across his chest. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be in this car or to go to work or even be around this man right now. He wants to be alone. He would rather be locked up in the guestroom for the day alone than be stuck in Gyro’s company with his crappy old music and his dorky bow tie and his stupid hat. Even though, when Fenton glances at him from below his eyelashes, he can’t help but notice how cute he looks in the dorky bow tie and stupid hat as he bobs his head along to the crappy old music.

_She asked me to untie her_

_A chase would be nice for a few_

_Isn't me, have a seed_

_Let me clip dirty wings_

_Let me take a ride, cut yourself_

_Want some help, please myself_

“What even is this,” Fenton grumbles, contemplating changing the station again. “You can’t even sing along to this.”

“Not everything is supposed to be sung along to,” Gyro responds, ending the conversation there. They both descend back into silence.

Work is work. Still keeping him at arms distance, Gyro sends Fenton to organize jars in the supply room for the majority of the day. He takes the stupid little kid tablet along with him and plays music on it, listening through his headphones, but there’s an adult lock on it that disallows him from playing anything with explicit lyrics. When they rejoin for lunch, they both avoid the breakroom, remembering what happened there. What almost happened. They go outside and eat on a bench that overlooks the bay instead. Fenton brings up the parental lock on the music.

“You can go a couple of weeks without hearing curse words in your music,” Gyro informs him, poking listlessly at the plastic container of plain white rice and steamed vegetables that match the one on Fenton’s own lap. “It’s not going to kill you. Besides, I don’t want to waste my time figuring out how to unlock it just so I have to relock it again for my nephew next time he visits.”

He’s an adult, he should be able to hear the word “fuck” if he wants to. He doesn’t finish his lunch and, pathetically, has to ask Gyro for permission to take a short walk for the remaining duration of his lunch hour. Gyro blinks at him, not expecting such a question because when has Fenton ever wanted to take a lunch on his break?

“Stay on the main bay trail,” he consents after Fenton makes up an excuse about needing some exercise to work out his restless energy. “Avoid any of the offshoots where you might end up being alone with anyone.”

Right, because he’s a brainless monster who would jump the first hapless bystander he comes across. Still, the walk is nice, though the air coming off the bag is cool this time of year and he returns with ruddy cheeks and a slight sniffle. The rage inside him calms from an uncomfortable intensity to a simmering bitterness.

The afternoon drags worse than the morning. He returns to the storage room, sorting through jars so old that some of their labels are all but unreadable due to the amount of dust accumulated on the glass. He disposes of at least half of the supplies. Gyro treats this room like a frat boy’s refrigerator. Why bother rifling through what’s in the back when you can just restock? Any attempt at arranging this room in alphabetical order, as the letters on the shelves indicate had been originally intended, must have been abandoned years ago.

There’s something soothing about bringing order to this room. To cleaning out the rot and putting everything back in the correct order. It’s also nice just to spend the day alone but the unease is still roiling in the pit of his stomach as he goes about moving and cleaning and sorting. He sips at his tea to try to settle the nausea, but it just seems to make it worse. The caffeine in the tea, perhaps. He’s extremely sensitive to the stuff but had opted for black instead of herbal today because of his lack of sleep.

Eventually, he finds himself running on autopilot, completely lost to his own thoughts. Of what he had found last night…and what he had not been able to.

_A number of prominent medical professionals recommend lowering the hormone levels after this point or, indeed, forgoing the use of the implants altogether._

Is he living proof that Gyro’s data had been incorrect the entire time? Or was he just drunk, horny, and learning to live with these feelings like a hormonal teenager? Is that even an excuse? If it were, then what stops the average non-drake teenager from just jumping people all the time?

Maybe if he had been paying attention to his surroundings instead of his thoughts, he would have spotted the spider before it seemingly dropped out of nowhere. The thing is the size of a softball and its eight hairy legs are already flitting in the air before it lands on his arm. Fenton positively shrieks. Glass shatters on the floor and he slaps violently at his arm and then his shirt and then his legs, trying to locate the errant monster, but it’s disappeared as quickly as it had manifested.

Gyro yells at him about the broken glass and then demands to know why he won’t go back into the room to even sweep up his own mess.

“I’m not fond of the company,” he says, shuddering. He rubs at his arms unconsciously; sure he can still feel the grotesque thing. The feathers on the back of his neck stand up. He scratches at the area.

“Well, you spent all day with it,” Gyro points out. He sighs, setting the wrench he’s holding down on the worktable. “The night janitor can deal with the glass and I’ll have the pest guy come and spray down the room. But if you don’t want to keep working on the supply closet come sit down on the table, I want to check your arm anyway.”

“Check my arm?” Fenton asks, looking at the spot on his forearm where the furry legs had scurried across it, fearing that he had overlooked a bite that Gyro had spotted. His feathers are ruffled from rubbing his arms but otherwise, they look normal.

“To make sure you haven’t removed the implant,” Gyro clarifies, pointing at his other arm. The one that has been wrapped up in a bandage for so long that Fenton has all but forgotten about it. He’s already pulling out a small device which Fenton eyes skeptically.

“What’s that?”

“Just a handheld x-ray machine,” the scientist replies as if this is something everybody has just hanging around their house. He’s fiddling with some buttons on it. “It will pick up the barium sulfate in the implant. Don’t worry, it’s similar to the machines the cops use to scan on campus, it won’t hurt you.”

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d do something like dig out my implant,” Fenton seethes but he sits on the table and begins to roll up his elbow-length sleeves to expose his bicep. He didn’t have time to change the bandages this morning and the edges look frayed. At least the bandage itself is clean and white, no signs of blood leaking through.

“You can’t believe I think you’d dig out your implant, again,” Gyro corrects him mildly. The machine beeps a couple of times when he powers it on. He hands Fenton a pair of glasses, instructing him to look away, just as a precaution. Right, perfectly safe. He hears a click like an old-fashioned camera shutter. “See, quick and easy.”

“And it’s still there?” Fenton asks, lacing his tone with sarcasm.

“It’s still there,” Gyro confirms. He takes the glasses back from him. “Okay, let’s take off the bandage now.”

“What?” Fenton protests, yanking his arm away from Gyro’s hands, though his touch was soft and gentle and admittedly pleasant. “It’s there, why do you need to take off my bandage? Do you want to see if I just taped it to the outside or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gyro says, not allowing himself to react to Fenton’s anger. His fingers stroke his wrist soothingly. “I just want to check and make sure it’s healing alright. Also, I thought we agreed that you would tell me if you were feeling any intense emotions?”

Fenton deflates. He wants to stay angry at this man, at how he’s treated him and what he’s kept from him, but that is difficult when he’s being so kind to him. It’s made even more difficult when he worries over him, tutting as he presses at the wound with some alcohol, cleaning oozing plasma from his feathers. It’s fresh, maybe a result of his flailing about only a few minutes ago after his run-in with the eight-legged beast.

“I don’t think it’s quite infected, but it’s a little enflamed,” he says, dabbing at the space around the stitches as carefully as if Fenton were his child. “I’m thinking maybe we apply an antibiotic cream and see how it responds. Did you have a reaction when you originally removed it?”

“A little fever,” Fenton admits. “But I took some antibiotics, and it went away.”

“Your modified bodies are so fragile,” Gyro sighs. He sits back on the stool, his arms resting casually on his legs. “I know that’s part of the desired results, but you get sick so easily. I really don’t want to give you pills but it’s probably for the best.”

“It doesn’t even hurt,” Fenton reassures him, knowing that if something were really wrong with him his pain would have gotten worse since he had been cut open, not better. “I’m sure pills are excessive.”

“I’d rather be safe,” Gyro says, shaking his head. “If something happened to you and I just sat back and let it happen... I don’t need that on my mind.”

Fenton spends the rest of the workday sitting at a computer, responding to his boss’s emails.

* * *

The clock on the wall reads 6:55.

“ _I’ll meet you at the car at 7:10. E-mail me if the professor asks you to stay late or something_.”

Fenton hasn’t spent much time in the stacks and he’s vaguely surprised by how nice it is down here in the basement. The coolness, the darkness. The smell of the books. And so many books! The entire area smells like old ink and paper. Only one student had been in the room when he had arrived, sitting on the floor looking through a pile of old _National Geographics_ , and he had departed within five minutes of Fenton’s arrival, leaving him alone in the silence of the basement.

As he had walked through the stacks his eyes had kept catching titles of various books and magazines, drawing his attention, bring up a wave of regret that he had not taken advantage of his student status for the last six years and spent more time just perusing the shelves. But the stacks are just not an area where a science student usually spends much time. Not unless you’re doing a paper on Charles Darwin, maybe. Or the history of the lobotomy.

He feels the urge to curl up in the corner and devour a stack of forty-year-old _Scientific American_ magazines, but he needs to head out. The walk from the library to the parking lot is much longer than the walk from the science building to the parking lot. Mainly because the library is on the opposite side of the campus with its own nearby structure. As a tenured professor, Gyro has his own assigned spot close to the building and it should only take a person a couple of minutes to travel from classroom to car with such a short distance to cover

It doesn’t matter anyway. The thirty minutes he had left class early for a “family emergency” had been enough time for him to make it to the library, locate what he was looking for, and transfer the information to an easily portable format. The last sheet of paper lands neatly on top of the pile and signals its completion with a small beeping sound.

“Perfect,” Fenton says to himself, scooping up the printed pages. All he has to do now is return the roll of microfilm back to the librarian at the front of the building on his way out.

“Thank you for all your help,” he says sincerely.

“Of course, dear,” the older female duck smiles kindly at him. “Not a problem at all. Let me know if I can be of any more help to you.”

He makes it back to the car at 7:08, panting and sweating from his quick jog across the grounds. There must be a warm front moving through because it’s a good twenty degrees warmer this evening than it had been when he had left class last week. Gyro is already in the driver’s seat, scrolling through the screen of his phone. He shoves the phone into the cupholder when Fenton opens the passenger’s side door, clutching his backpack to his chest.

“Daraban really does like to keep his students to the last minute, doesn’t he?” Gyro asks, turning the key. “Let’s go, I’m starving.”

Fenton thinks about asking if they should stop to pick up something to eat but considering he’s dead broke that would probably be presumptuous of him to suggest such a thing. They drive straight back to the condo and Gyro disappears into the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder that dinner should be done in about an hour.

“I’m going to go get a jumpstart on Thursday’s reading,” Fenton lies, heading to his room with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Gyro grunts out a reply from the other room.

He doesn’t take out his reading, of course. At least not the assigned reading. Instead, he removes the 112-page stack of paper he had printed out at the library and dives in. The lettering is faded, the text uneven and blocky – most likely typed out on an old typewriter rather than a computer or word processor. The spelling is British standard rather than American. Fenton is not used to reading such old material. He’s a science student not a history one. His major relies on the most up-to-date information, not historical artifacts, and he finds himself stumbling over the strange wording in areas, reading and re-reading the same passages several times in some instances.

This is obviously a translated copy of the study. A mediocre translation. Most likely written by somebody used to transcribing direct words rather than general meaning. Some of the phrases seem scatological to his brain, most likely some turn of phrase in its mother tongue that just doesn’t work in English.

He only makes it through the first fifteen pages before Gyro knocks on his door, informing him the food is ready. But it’s enough. He wants to read the rest of the script, he will read the rest later, but the basic results conveyed in the introduction already told him all he needed to know.

Gyro made curry for dinner. Japanese-style with plenty of vegetables and some ground meat that Fenton thinks is beef but you never know with Gyro, it could be elk or buffalo or kangaroo for all Fenton knows. It’s not spicy enough. Japanese curry never seems to match other types of curry in spiciness. It’s heavy and the sauce and rice leave a sinking feeling like a brick in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t finish his plate though he insists it tastes fine when Gyro asks if he doesn’t like it.

“Just feeling a little bloated,” he says.

“You didn’t finish your lunch, either,” Gyro points out, waving at him with the end of his fork.

“Must be the changing hormones,” Fenton bites out. “Can I have a glass of wine?”

Gyro looks like he wants to say something more, maybe deny the request, but he relents.

“I need to unwind myself,” Gyro admits, pouring himself a second, larger glass. “The article is due tomorrow evening. It’s finished but I need to do a second read-through. I’m too tired to bother this evening. Come, it’s a warm night, let’s go sit outside on the balcony.”

Fenton hasn’t been on the balcony yet. It was cool and rainy all weekend and he had all but passed out immediately after dinner on Monday. It’s surprisingly quiet outside, even here in the middle of the city. Perhaps because they’re just too far up to hear all the noise from the city below. There are only two pieces of furniture outside, a cushioned swing patio bench and a small side table with a solar-powered lamp sitting on it. It matches the same subdued tone of the rest of his apartment, the cushions on the bench steel-gray, the rest of the furniture seemingly black, though Fenton could be seeing wrong in the dim lighting.

“Been a while since I sat out here with anybody,” Gyro admits, taking the seat closest to the table. Closest to the door if he needs to escape, Fenton notes to himself. He sits as far away from the other man as he can, pressed up against the side so the metal handle of the bench bites into his leg. “I like to read out here on the weekends a lot but usually it’s just me and a book.”

“What, you don’t bring your dates out here to romance them?” Fenton scoffs, holding his wine glass between the palms of his hands. His feet dangle a few inches from the floor, the bench’s chain length set to somebody Gyro’s height. Gyro kicks lazily at the ground, establishing a slow rock. “I’m sure it’s romantic, the view. Look at the way the lights of St. Canard glow on the water. The ducks of the city, what havoc they make.”

“Didn’t take you for a Dracula fan,” Gyro admits, sipping serenely at his glass as if not noticing Fenton’s hostility towards him. “And no, most of the men I bring home are more interested in seeing my bedroom than the balcony. Though to be fair, most of the guys I’ve been with the last few years have been hookups from dating apps.”

“I’m guessing you’re no longer stringing along hapless drakes then?” Fenton asks cynically. “You’d have to actually put effort into dating one of us.”

“Is this about what you read in my dissertation?”

“What?” Fenton sputters, caught off guard. “I-what?”

“Fenton, I’ve been exceedingly patient with you the last couple of days,” Gyro drawls, turning in his seat so he’s halfway facing him. “I know hormonal changes can cause sudden bursts of emotional instability. But we both know this isn’t that. You’re angry at me and considering you weren’t angry at me until after you read my dissertation, I don’t think it’s presumptuous to assume it has something to do with the paper.”

“How did you know I read your dissertation?” Fenton asks, staring up at him with a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look on his face.

“I told you when I gave you that tablet that I was going to track what you did online,” Gyro says, rolling his eyes. He kicks at the ground again, giving the bench a shove that causes the seat below him to wobble unevenly as it stops mid-swing and propels backward against gravity. “What would be the point of even giving you a tablet with a tracking app if I didn’t actually check it? I saw that you downloaded the PDF from ProQuest.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d see downloads,” Fenton confesses sheepishly. Despite his outrage, he did go out of his way to track down Gyro’s writing after he had asked him not to. He turns his eyes downward, staring at his own dangling feet. “I just assumed you’d see I had been on the site and thought I was working on a school assignment.”

“I can’t see your searches on the school sites because of the encrypted privacy measures, but I can see the documents you download onto the tablet itself,” Gyro clarifies. “Now are you going to stop snapping at me and tell me what’s wrong?”

Fenton is quiet for a moment. He raises his wine glass and takes a large mouthful of the red liquid. It feels dry going down and fills his belly with a soothing warmth. He braces himself, asking the heavens for liquid courage.

“The, um, the studies by Agafonov and Rabinovich that you referenced,” Fenton explains, still not looking towards him. “What you said about them, and the studies themselves. I tracked them down, but I haven’t finished reading them yet.”

“Agafonov and Rabinovich,” Gyro considers, tapping at the side of his wineglass with his fingertips, obviously trying to recall which studies Fenton is referring to. Fenton watches him, noting how his fingernails glint in the light.

“The ones who closely studied drakes for a decade following the removal of their implants,” Fenton reminds him, though he can’t imagine ever forgetting such names. Of course, he’s also not a chicken. What could such a study mean to somebody who saw drake implants as a dissertation topic, not a day-to-day existence?

“Oh, right,” Gyro nods. Another kick to the floor. Fenton’s head bobs along with the motion. “You might as well wipe whatever you learned from them right out of your mind. They were discredited back in 2003 when it was revealed that their subjects were all Soviet prisoners. The study was little more than fabricated numbers used to justify the state withholding the implants from overcrowded drake prisons. Cheaper to push through a fake study than pay for medical care. It’s always best to question any data that came from the Soviet era.”

Prisoners. Fenton’s mind races as he tries to recall the data he had scanned over in the various graphs and tables included in the study. Hormone levels, offending rates, medical charts. It’s hard to rape somebody if you’re kept in solitary for ten years. And it’s easy to make sure somebody is healthy under the eyes of a watchful prison medical staff. There is no saying that the conditions were anything that extreme, though.

“Do we know if the studies are fake?” Fenton prods desperately, grasping at straws that are being pulled quickly from his reach. “Just because they were experimenting on prisoners doesn’t mean they’re totally inaccurate. Have we tried to replicate those results?”

“Fenton, come on,” Gyro says softly. He turns to look up at him, hearing the pain in the rooster’s voice. But he can’t meet his eyes for long because there is so much pity in their depths. He shifts them down to the long fingers cradling the glass once more. “You know that would be unethical. The only safe way to even carry out such a study would require isolating a good number of subjects for years. We’re not the USSR, we can’t just experiment on prisoners. And no free drakes would be willing to be locked away for observation for that long, which is what would be required for public safety. There is no way to replicate it in a way that complies to our country’s scientific standards.”

“They could still be accurate,” he argues again. “There could still be merit in at least inspecting them.”

“A non-replicable study that is nearly as old as I am?” Gyro asks, voice gentle, coaxing. “They were out-dated when I was your age, let alone in 2021.”

“But your cited them several times in your own work,” Fenton all but pleads for Gyro to give him something to work with. “Why would you cite sources you were uncertain of in your dissertation?”

“Bias,” Gyro admits, grimacing. He waves away Fenton’s judging gaze. “I know, I know, the enemy of any good scientist. I was young and naïve back then. I wanted to help people. I wanted to help drakes. I found that study and I suppose I just latched onto it because I wanted male ducks to be able to live the same fulfilling lives as everybody else. I know that sex isn’t everything but it’s a lot of the everything and I just kept thinking about that one guy and how things could have been if he had been a rooster.”

That one guy. The drake Gyro had dated, that is who he is speaking of, obviously. Fenton wonders if perhaps Gyro had been more attached to him than he claims, or more than he had even realized for that matter.

“Gyro, you want me to be perfectly honest with you, right?” Fenton asks, feeling his throat tightening with anxiety.

“You know I do,” he confirms. Fenton takes a deep breath, his head already starting to spin. But he needs to do this.

“The truth is, I’m…afraid of losing myself,” he begins slowly. “You don’t get it, there is no way for you to truly understand. I’m sure you look at me and the studies and the statistics and think to yourself that I’m just angry that I’m going to lost interest in sex, but it’s not that. Not just that. These feelings I’ve felt the last few months are more than anything I could have imagined. And to know that I’m going to lose that ability soon, that I won’t feel things this strong anymore…it’s not a good feeling.”

Gyro makes a small humming noise and Fenton feels his hand touch his lower back. He wants to pull away but he resists the urge. He leans down, setting the wine glass on the floor and Gyro moves his hand away. Fenton clenches his own into tight fists, holding them against his thighs.

“I’m not saying I’m upset with you for putting the implant back in. I know that was the right decision. And some of the bad emotions were too strong so yes, I’m glad that those will be going away too. But the other ones. The love I felt for Drake and Launchpad. That connection I was able to feel to others, I’m afraid of losing it.”

“You might not,” Gyro says softly. He touches his hand this time, resting his palm on top of Fenton’s fist. Fenton feels him move closer to him, the cushion beneath them shifting. “It’s true that the implant has the side effect of creating emotional distance. It’s not one that doctors like to talk about, but it might be different for you now. Now that you know how to feel like that, maybe you can retain that ability. Maybe it’s something that drakes can learn and keep with them.”

“But we don’t know,” Fenton adds. He stares at Gyro’s hand, the sleek yellow feathers on his hand shine in a way that Fenton’s own soft brown down does not. Almost glass-like. “Because there are no studies on that, is there? Because nobody cares how we feel, as long as we’re not dangerous to anybody.”

“It’s for the good of society,” Gyro says lamely. He squeezes his hand with genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” Fenton says. He sighs and reaches up to run his fingers through his hair. Then he sighs again, this one a deep, long pull of air into his lungs that he releases slowly as he thinks about what he wants to say and how to say it. “Gyro, I have…feelings for you. Romantic ones. And frankly, it terrifies me to know that I might wake up one day and they’ll just be gone like that.”

“I see,” Gyro replies, blinking in surprise at the sudden and miraculously nonchalant confession. He pulls his hand away, not quickly but not slowly. “I…you’re my student, Fenton. My employee.”

“I know that,” Fenton says, already feeling the tears gathering in his eyes. He rubs at his face with the hand Gyro had been holding, wondering if that’s the last time he’ll willingly touch him like that. “And yes, I understand the problems with that. I’m not asking you to reciprocate my feelings, I just wanted to get them out there before I lose them.”

“There is no reason to think you’ll lose those feelings,” Gyro replies. “Most drakes are perfectly capable of sustaining romantic relationships.”

“They are,” Fenton agrees. His face is wet now, his voice sounds clogged. He is not openly crying but the tears seem to just keep coming on their own, silently, and relentless. “But, Gyro, look at me. Why do you think I am such an exceptional scientist? It’s because I have been so preoccupied with science and math and knowledge my entire life. When you’re unconcerned with strong emotions it leaves a lot of free space in your mind for other things. You’ve said it before, I am the perfect bonsai tree.”

“I meant that as a compliment,” Gyro says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Fenton laughs suddenly, it’s loud and ugly sounding. He wipes at his face again, aggressively, stinging his eyes. “I know you meant it as a compliment, and I hated you for it. I’m not a tree to be pruned.”

“You’re not,” Gyro acknowledges. The swing moves as he climbs to his feet, leaving Fenton alone on the bench. Fear grips Fenton’s chest, scared that Gyro is about to leave him, go inside, maybe lock himself in his room, but he just walks to the ledge of the balcony and leans with his back against the railing. He’s facing Fenton, looking down at him sitting there with tears running down his face. “Since you’ve been so honest with me, I suppose I should afford you the same courtesy. I am attracted to you Fenton. I think have been since I first saw you.”

“Gyro-”

“Let me speak,” he interrupts, insistently. Fenton wrings his hands together and stares at him, noting how beautiful he looks with the bay and the lights behind him, the warm wind blowing his normally meticulously hair across his face. “It confused me at first because I wasn’t sure if I was attracted to you or I was admiring how perfect of a specimen you turned out. Am I a scientist or a male first? To be perfectly honest, I’m still not quite sure. But it doesn’t really matter because the more time I spent around you the more I came to realize I genuinely liked you as a person. You can be infuriating at times, but you’re also extremely intelligent and you have a lot of potential and you’re just friendly and warm in a way that I’m not.”

“So what are you saying?” Fenton asks, eyes shining hopefully up at him in the moonlight.

“I’m saying that your feelings are returned,” Gyro sighs. He reaches up under his glasses and rubs at one of his eyes, wincing. “I’m not going to be an idiot and say I’m in love with you or anything that asinine because we barely even know each other. But you’re the kind of guy I probably would have pursued when I was younger.”

“But…”

“But you’re a duck.”

Neither of them says anything more. Gyro turns away from him, leaning his elbows against the railing and stares at the water. For a while, Fenton stares at him, waiting to see if he says anymore. Five minutes pass, ten. The wind whips around Gyro’s figured, snapping the sleeves of his shirt, the legs of his slacks. It sounds like a flag flapping in the breeze. Fenton finally climbs to his feet and joins him, leaning against the railing as well, close enough so that his elbow touches the other man’s.

“We could still give it a try,” he starts, hesitantly.

“It won’t work,” Gyro’s voice is hard, cold. When Fenton looks at him his face is dry but there is a tremble in the fingers hanging out over the ledge.

“Just because it didn’t work with him doesn’t mean it can’t work for us,” Fenton suggests. The wind feels painful against his face, the skin sensitive still from wiping at the salty tears. Abrasive. Nowhere to shelter from it like the bench set close to the building itself.

“There is no reason to think it would,” Gyro shakes his head. “You know the odds. Unless the individual is asexual, the success rate of male ducks dating anybody besides each other is extremely low. I’m not the person I thought I could be when I was your age. I thought I’d be able to make it work with him and we barely lasted a month.”

“I’m not him,” Fenton replies. He cautiously pulls his arm back from the railing and touches Gyro’s back. He stiffens under the touch for a moment, then relaxes, the muscles softening beneath Fenton’s fingertips. He feels hot through his shirt.

“You’re not him,” Gyro agrees. “Hell, it’d be easier if you were because as attractive as he seemed at the time, you’re about the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine waking up beside you every day and knowing I can’t touch you in a non-platonic way. I can’t see myself living an abstinent life. I know you probably think that is unfair of me. It’s easier to not ever have something than to have it and then lose it and I know asking you to give up something when I’m not is pure hypocrisy. But I can’t do it. Sometimes I just need that physical connection and I could never have that with you.”

“I’m not at that stage yet,” Fenton reminds him softly.

“You will be soon,” Gyro says.

“But not yet,” Fenton prods. He leans his hip against Gyro’s, pressing lightly against him. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think my sex drive has gone down at all since you put it back in. You’re the first person I ever had sexual thoughts about in my life and I feel like it’s very likely you’ll be the last. The idea that I’ll lose these feelings for you without ever getting to act on them is absolutely heart-wrenching. It may be even worse than knowing that I’ll lose the ability altogether. I’ll never get to be with somebody I’m in love with, and that just feels like the cherry on top of all this injustice.”

“It’s for the best.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like that,” Fenton replies. He presses his cheek against Gyro’s arm, closing his eyes. He inhales his scent, taking a minute of his life to stop and concentrate on his senses. Wanting to remember this moment forever. The smell, the feel, the sounds. “You don’t have to promise me anything, please, just let me know what it’s like while I still can.”

“But it won’t last,” Gyro gets out. His voice sounds oddly breathy.

“Would you prefer to live with the knowledge that we didn’t at least give it a try?”

Gyro feels nothing against him like Drake or Launchpad he. He’s all skin and bones. He tastes like wine and curry sauce. It’s different than it was last time he had kissed him, slower, softer. Fenton lets Gyro take the lead, the memory of what happened in the breakroom still haunting the back of his mind.

They somehow make it to Gyro’s bedroom through a haze of kissing and touching. Yet even as Gyro is standing over him, unbuttoning his own shirt, Fenton can’t help but feel that prick of anxiety against the back of his neck.

“We don’t have to do this right now,” he breathes into the man’s mouth. “We can wait, make sure neither of us changes our minds?”

“We don’t have time to wait,” Gyro says, shaking his head. He pushes him down with a hand against his chest and climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. His fingers are on Fenton’s tie, working at the knot. “We only have a few weeks, maybe a month top, before we can’t do this anymore. I’m not missing out on a single opportunity to have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took eleven chapters to get the promised Fenro. Does this count as a slowburn?


End file.
